Holding the Infinite
by silbs
Summary: Anya Sowe, a sixteen-year old from District Eight, has been reaped for the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games. Follow her through her journey to both victory and destruction. / REWRITES HAPPENING.
1. The Cycle

_Hello, it's me. I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to read this piece of crap. lmao hi guys I am back after two long years, and naturally, instead of moving on, I have decided to go back to this story and start all over again. to those who have followed this, thank you for sticking with me, and i'm sorry for disappointing you guys. i do hope you continue reading this story. to those who are only discovering this fic now, welcome! i am on my nth time rewriting chapter one: i hope you won't find that annoying although you have every right to. anyway, please do read on if you would like. let's hope this time i stick around. - elle_

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><p><strong>Chapter One:<strong>

There's a long, long silence before Iris speaks up once more. Her voice mixes in with the familiar hums of the machines from the other side of the district, but her words are not hard to filter out. "I just can't believe how brash you can get," she says as she tosses a pack of ice towards Nidle. He catches it effortlessly. "I mean, I'd do the same if I was there, but that doesn't mean you should sink to _his_ level."

Garett runs a hand through Iris' brown hair. The gesture leaves me pink in the face. I bow my head to hide it. "I'd like to see you throw a punch or two,"

Nidle presses the ice pack to his shoulder. "Yeah. Let's see Iris the Weakling handle a stupid idiot like Weaver." He winces. "Ouch."

"You shouldn't have punched him in the face." I tell him before reaching out for a cookie from the bowl in the middle of our own, happy circle. I should thank Nidle, really. Even with his brash attitude, always charging headfirst into things, he threw that punch at Weaver to stand up for me. It's a sweet gesture, but Weaver might pay him back with two punches or more. Nothing pleases an idiot more than to win what he just lost.

"I'd punch him again and again if he continued looking at you like that." Nidle snorts before pressing the pack to his shoulder. Weaver had been getting on my nerves for the past week ever since he heard a rumor about my mother in the factory he had a shift in. He's been bugging me about it, yapping and yapping even though I told him to stop. Today, though, he went too far. He pinned me to the wall of a building a few yards away from school, saying stuff like I was definitely prettier than Mom: in his eyes was hunger, a different kind of hunger that I have seen before, the hunger of man that makes you fear for the days to come. I thought I was a goner when Nidle swooshed in. The only thing I heard was a loud thud, and Weaver is on the floor, clutching his face and crying. Nidle was going to throw a punch at him again when Garett arrived and told me to help him pull Nidle away from the scene.

"He's going to look good for the cameras tomorrow." Iris laughs. "Imagine his swollen face up in the big screen."

"I'd feel sorry." Garett smiles. He pours us each a cup of apple juice.

I take the cup in my hands with much gratitude for Iris. She's the reason why the three of us—Garett, Nidle, and I—have been able to enjoy stuff the other kids or families can't afford. This warrants us unwanted attention from people, kids who think we're friends with Iris because she's richer than any of us. I drink the juice before my hands get the chance to drop the cup. It's sweet, but there's a hint of sourness to it. If luxury has a taste, this would be it.

"It's tomorrow again, huh." Iris says out of the blue. "How many slips do you have in?"

I can't help but hang on tighter to the cup. The question is harmless, and yet it stirs panic in me. I could feel my defense mechanism kicking in. Of course I'd feel on the edge: Iris only has five slips in. The smell of the earth and grass helps me regain my composure a bit. "I've thirty." The sound of my own voice and the words escaping my mouth leaves me feeling hollow.

Garett chews on a cookie before answering. "I've got ten."

Nidle, the ones who has the most slips among us, speaks up in a carefree voice, as if the number of his slips doesn't matter at all. "Thirty-five." He says with a stupid smile on his face. He raises his cup in mock of a toast. "May the odds be ever in my favor."

"Stupid Nidle." I say under my breath. He might think he knows me well, but I do know him well, too. He's masking his nervousness about the reaping tomorrow with a façade of confidence. He's played this card too many times for me not to notice.

Ugh. I hate it when Iris brings up a subject matter that's just too sensitive.

To be fair, though, I did the same thing, here in the comfort of her home, in the mayor's own house. Our talk about the District 13 footage still gives me chills during the night. Ever since, it feels like the four of us are being watched closely by the Capitol. Everyone knows in 8 that we are not safe from the ears of President Snow. Some of our citizens learned that the hard way. An apt punishment, they would tell us when someone _learns_. We all know it's a reminder for those who dare go against the Capitol.

"I'm going to gussy myself up for the cameras." Nidle laughs. At the same time, Iris lets out a squeal. She smacks her forehead, says, "I almost forgot!", and runs inside the house. We all watch her back as she disappears behind the door.

The three of us turn our attention back to the food in front of us. Iris has always been such a giver, showering us with gifts which her father approved beforehand. The gifts usually consist of food and basic needs, like thread, bandages, soap. I reach for another cookie, but Nidle gets it before I do. "Are you going to Cecelia's later?"

I nod. Cecelia had asked yesterday for me to come to her house today. "I'll drop you off," Nidle continues on.

"The factories are a long way off to the Victor's Village," Garett points out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a tint of pink flush in Nidle's cheeks. Of course, I don't tell him that I saw that. I might enjoy embarrassing him from time to time, but I needed to cut him some slack. "Weaver might come back for her. Also, mind your own business, Garett." He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

I try my hardest not to laugh.

Iris comes running back to us, something red in her hands. Nidle snorts. "Speaking of business, here comes yours." She pants when she comes in our proximity, as if she had just run from the factories to the Justice Building. Iris was never a good runner, and her physicality is at the bottom compared to the three of us.

"Breathe," Garett instructs her as he stands to rub her back. She pushes him away lightly and sucks in some air.

"I'm fine," she says breathlessly. I offer up some juice, but she refuses me, too. "Anyway, here's what I wanted to show you!" She whips the object she's holding, and when she straightens it out, I see that it's a dress. I can feel my eyes sparkle as it settles on the red dress, while Garett and Nidle probably eye me like hawks.

"It's a dress." Nidle says, stating the obvious. Garett hides his chuckling by coughing.

Iris rolls her eyes. "My reaping dress!" She shifts her attention to me, who is obviously enamored by such beauty.

"Can I touch it?" The way the cloth stretches out makes me feel that at a simple touch, the dress could be broken. But Iris says okay, so I do. It feels just like how a Capitol dress should feel. In the factory where I work, there are tons of orders for Capitol dresses every hour, and getting to touch them and see them, no matter how overworked we are, is a joy in itself. I touch the cloth, the red, _red_ cloth and feel its quality in my fingertips. It's made of polyester and felt soft to the touch, not too thick and not too thin. And the color—the richness of it, how the red looks so alive, like it's almost breathing. The sleeves reach down to the elbows, and the skirt down to the knees. Its neck line stretches down to collarbones, perfect for a necklace to show. I've never seen something so beautiful in my life. I once thought that my gray dress was beautiful, but that pales compares to this. This is a simple work of art, but a work of art nonetheless.

"Someone named Plutarch Heavensbee gave this to Daddy." She says, her nose in the air.

"It's pretty." Nidle says, although I can tell that he could care less.

Garett punches him in the shoulder. "We know you can't appreciate beauty, so just shut up." He says with a laugh before planting a kiss on Iris' cheek. I look down at the dress again. Stupid Garett and his stupid kisses and his stupid ability to forget. "It's a really pretty dress, baby."

Nidle makes a sound that is a mix of snorting and chuckling.

"Shut up, Nidle." Iris pouts.

We spend the rest of the hour talking, mostly about what to anticipate tomorrow. Iris says her father is already in his study room, practicing his speech. We all know there's no need for Mayor Trent to practice since his speech is made up of the same boring words every year.

"I can't wait to see how horrific Vergil Wellwood looks like tomorrow." Iris laughs as she pours us another round of apple juice. "Orange skin with a green outfit? Not a nice combination."

"Maybe he's dyed his skin yellow this time?" Garett suggests. Last year, Vergil had green skin. Not the vibrant kind of green, like grass, but the green of moss, which is disgusting.

"Or maybe plucked all his eyebrows?" I say.

"All the same, he'll just take another slip out of that ball." Nidle says in a carefree voice. No one says anything after that. I play with the hem of my dress, Garett and Iris look at each other. Nidle really knows how to ruin the mood, just when it's getting better. He just needs to remind all of us that the reaping is tomorrow, like it's just nothing for him. I wish I had his optimism.

But then again, I might be mistaking his optimism for indifference.

"Shouldn't you be getting to Cecelia's now?" Nidle asks. "Iris, what time is it?"

"Four-thirty."

I stretch my legs and reach for my toes before standing up. Nidle reaches his hand out to me and I help him stand. I dust off the blades of grass on the hem of my dress. I like the smell of it clinging to me, though, since the mayor's house is one of the rare places in District 8 that has greenery. "Garett," I turn to him, "you coming?"

"Staying with Iris." Garett says, a tender smile on his lips, just like the way he smiled during that stormy night. It feels like a punch to the stomach, though I can never fully understand why. I guess it's just painful to know that Iris always sees those smiles of his rather than me.

What am I even thinking? I have to go and get away. We say our goodbyes and see-you-tomorrows before I grab Nidle by the shirt, brisk-walking out of the Trent estate.

He speaks up when we reach the sidewalk. "Why are you in such a hurry?" He deliberately slows down his pace so I can slow down.

"We need to give them privacy." I say.

Nidle snorts. "Privacy. Yeah, right." He stops walking, and I stop. "Okay, slow down." He says in a soft voice.

I turn to him and see a stupid smile on his face. "How can I slow down when you stopped?"

He rolls his eyes. "Such witticism."

"Shut up."

"Okay, just tell me why you are so on edge."

"What?"

"You. On edge. Today. Why?"

I can't believe him. "_Really?_"

He furrows his brow as if I'm the one who asked the stupid question. "_What?_"

"Because!" I say exasperatedly.

Because I have thirty slips in, and he has thirty-five. Because the odds _might_ be in our favor tomorrow. Because Iris has five slips, and what if she somehow gets reaped? Because we're still stuck in this vicious cycle, a cycle we'll never probably get away from. Because he's acting so… _relaxed_ even though our deaths might be certain once the sun starts to rise tomorrow.

But I can't tell him any of that. I _don't _want to tell him any of that.

"Because Iris has such a nice dress." I lie, but not really.

"Really? You're on edge because of _that_?"

I push him, hard. He falls on the ground. "Shut up, Nidle!"

He laughs, but there is a bit of anger in there, too. I can feel it. "Come on, help me up."

Stupid as I am, I help him up. Even as he stands straight, he won't let go of my hand. He keeps it there, encased in his own. The warmth is all too familiar for me. We've held hands before, but this is different, as if there is a meaning behind it only the two of us can understand. Not really, though. When a boy and girl hold hands, everyone thinks of the same thing.

"You can let go now." I say.

"Let's walk to Cecelia's like this." He whispers, and he starts walking ahead, me tailing behind him like an obedient idiot.

But I don't refuse him. Sometimes, being an idiot like this feels nice. It's just one of the things I can take for granted.

The walk to Cecelia's from Iris' takes about thirty minutes, twenty if you're in a hurry. We pass by what is known in 8 as the Plaza, where buildings doubling as shops and houses are lined up. People are coming in and out of the buildings, some of them with bags of supplies in their hands, the others, plain smiles or excruciating frowns. There's the bakery Cliff likes going to, the dress shop my mother used to work in, until the pay wasn't enough for her growing family anymore. Most of the shops have been there since I was born, and yet the families running them have never been richer than they were years ago. It just goes to show how much District 8 isn't any better, how a district that gives too much to the Capitol would still have their children line up for tesserae. Not every one line ups, but there are still who do, kids like me, Nidle, and Garett. Even working in so many shifts isn't enough to fill your stomach.

We pass by a candy store, where some kids from our part of town have their noses pressed on the window. "Ah, to be a kid again," Nidle says wistfully, as if he has gone beyond seeing the road in front of him and he is looking at memories of a not-too-distant childhood.

I snort. "You're still a kid."

"I'm _sixteen._"

"Still a kid."

"Whatever. No one's young enough to be butchered by the Capitol, anyway." He says out of the blue. I cast my head down to avoid answering back. _He's right,_ I think, but I dare not say. Anyone could be listening. Even the ground has ears.

So, I focus again on the warmth of his hand, how it engulfs me so easily. I wish he can just shut up and enjoy the bliss of us holding hands. Does he really need to talk about how the Capitol can take away everything we hold so dear all the time? Nidle has a rebellious spirit, everyone knows that, but sometimes I wish I could smack sense into him. That everything he says can be heard. That possibly one day—but please, _please_ don't let that happen ever— he might just disappear, the way the more vocal people do. Can't he just… endure it, at least until an opportunity springs up?

I can see the Victor's Village arch from far away, and we still haven't let go of each other's hands. The crunching of rocks underneath our shoes serves as a nice placeholder for our conversation, until Nidle begins again.

"Did you get to ask your mom about the thing?" He asks carefully. I can tell he's picked out the words the entire time he's silent.

"What thing?" I confirm. He could be talking about a dozen of things.

He sighs at my feigned stupidity. "The rumor, Anya."

I look at the arch. "Yes." I tell him about it. How Mom told me that it was just a rumor from years ago. How there was no such thing as a stylist asking her to be an assistant; how it was just a lie someone made up about her declining to live a luxurious life in the Capitol. "She just… laughed. I think she's telling the truth."

"Of course she'd tell you it's just a rumor." Nidle's grip on my hand tightens as we enter the Victor's Village. "She's your mom."

"Well why don't you ask her since you know so much about lying moms?" I snap back. I realize how rude my words are the moment they left my mouth.

He sighs. "I really don't like you the day before reapings."

"Well then, sorry for being such a worry-wart." I try to pull my hand away from him, but he doesn't let go.

"Everything's going to be okay." He whispers softly, running his thumb over mine. I can tell how much he wants to assure me that everything is indeed going to be okay. I want to believe him, I really do, but it's not enough. Not with all the time the Capitol assures us that everything is not okay.

I hold onto his hand and nod. "Yeah," I reply half-heartedly, "everything's going to be fine."


	2. Of Fears and Edges

Whenever I am inside Cecelia's house, I feel warm and fuzzy. It's like I'm home with my family, and that nothing bad will ever come to me. Today, though, something is different. The atmosphere is somewhat frigid, making me feel stiff even though the couch is soft. Cecelia is just knitting a small sweater, although judging by the movement of her hands and the pace she is at, she would rather do something else. Nidle can't keep still beside me, and I can't help but play with the loose thread in one of my sleeves. I've never had this kind of experience before in Cecelia's house. The discomfort is actually frightening me a bit.

The restlessness I am feeling is overwhelming. I can't even think of anything to say! I know she called me here to ask to look after the kids while she's gone, and that is a topic that I could lead on, but I can't even open my mouth!

It's Nidle who breaks the silence. The sound of his voice makes my heart leap miles. "Thanks for the bread, Cecelia." He says in a shy voice I have never heard before, "The guys really enjoyed it."

It seems like Nidle's words also surprised Cecelia. All of a sudden, she stops knitting. Her eyes become wide in a split second, but are back to normal again by the time I blink. Is it just me, or is there a slight tremor to her hands?

When she looks up at us, though, she looks like the same old Cecelia. The warm and happy mother of three who is married to Simon, and victor of the 55th Hunger Games. "Just come here whenever you need something, okay?" She settles the sweater she's knitting on the small table and sighs. "I'm sorry for acting tense."

I never thought she noticed it herself. I exhale slowly. I'm just glad the tension is over.

"Worried about the Games?" Nidle supplies.

No, the tension is far from over. In my mind, I punch Nidle. I look at him. _Thanks a lot_.

"Worried about the kids." Cecelia smiles. "Simon can't put them to bed right."

"I will." I tell her.

She looks over at me and smiles. Sadly. "You always do."

Her sad smile feels like a punch to the stomach, worse than Nidle's punch to Weaver's jaw. Have I done something wrong? The unrest is too strong. "Is everything okay, Ces?"

She nods too soon. "I'm okay. Well, forget about me, how are you guys holding up?"

"I have a shift tonight." Nidle replies. He repeatedly taps his foot on the floor, driving me slightly insane. "I asked Paylor for an extra one. She was kind enough to make some way for me."

"Why are you still here then?" I mutter underneath my breath. Somehow, Nidle is getting on my nerves slowly but surely. It's not just his foot tapping on the wooden floor, but also his face plastered with a carefree smile. I wasn't like this earlier, so why am I now?

He hears me. "Because I still have time."

"He can still catch the auto to the next side of town." Cecelia says. There is now a small, genuine smile on her face. I believe for a while that she's okay. She turns to Nidle. "Will you be okay waking up tomorrow?"

"Yes." Nidle chuckles with a stupid grin on his face. "I can't sleep during the nights before the reaping, anyway."

What he says is true. No kid under the age of eighteen can sleep the night before Reaping Day. There's always the nightmare of getting reaped, being whisked by a train to a land far off from our own. The horrid dream of having to leave your parents, your family, behind, of dying in the arena. The Capitol has subjected us to these nightmares for too long. Not that we can do anything about it. Going against the Capitol means our nightmares coming true, maybe even worse than what we see at night. In the meantime, all we have do to is sleep and get through it. I shake my head softly, wondering if there truly is a way to escape this kind of living. Preferably one that didn't involve death.

"Anya?" Cecelia's voice startles me. I start dusting off the skirt of my dress for no apparent reason. Nidle is probably raising his eyebrows beside me.

"Nothing's wrong." I try to smile. It might've come out as a horrible, horrible wince.

"We're not even asking anything, stupid." Nidle chuckles.

I nudge him in the ribs. "Shut up."

"Well, if you say so," Cecelia furrows her brows, "but I can see you're tense."

It's the reaping tomorrow. Of course I'd be tense. Who wouldn't? I bite my tongue. "I'm not tense."

"Yeah, she's not." Nidle vouches for me. "She's just jealous because Iris has a nice dress."

I lose it. I punch him on his shoulder. "Shut up!"

"What?!" He says incredulously. "I saw you earlier looking at it!"

"Just shut up, Nidle!"

"Okay, time out, kids." Cecelia says, her voice louder than our bickering.

"He's lying!" I defend myself.

"Am not." Nidle defends himself.

I roll my eyes. "Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not!"

"Are too!"

"Why don't you just go to your stupid shift?! Cecelia called for _me_, not you, stupid Nidle!" My words shut him up. I didn't think that they would work, but it did. The smile on his face disappears, replaced with a straight expression. His foot stops tapping the floorboard, and he stops rubbing his shoulder.

Suddenly, I feel a lot horrible. I did shut him up, but at what cost? I've never seen Nidle like this with me before. Is he angry at me? But he started it! I might've been jealous of Iris' dress but he didn't have to say it in front of Cecelia!

"Okay." He says flatly, his eyes never leaving me. His cold stare leaves me wanting to cry. Great, I made this person mad at me. What's worse, either of us can get reaped tomorrow and I would never have the chance to apologize. He stands up. "Thanks, Cecelia. For the bread. And your hospitality even though I _wasn't_ invited."

"I'll walk you to the door." Cecelia says softly. She stands up and leads Nidle out of the living room.

I am such an idiot! Why am I even regretting my words now? He started this whole thing! And yet why am I feeling like the one at fault? Ugh, I hate myself, how conflicting I am! I hate Nidle and his stupid comments and his smug little smirk that makes him look too handsome for his own good!

It's also his fault for being conflicting, anyway! First he defends me from Weaver, and now he's teasing me endlessly. I don't know where the lies and the truths end with him on most days. One moment he's by my side, standing with me in stuff I do, and the next moment he's saying things that hurt my feelings.

By the time Cecelia comes back, I've made my conclusion: boys are stupid.

When I look up, Cecelia gives me a glass of water. She has a soft smile on her face, the kind she does when her children have hurt themselves, like when Argyle skinned his knee a few days back. I take it in my hands, carefully and gently. "Thank you." I whisper.

"I gave Nidle a bag of food." She tells me as she takes her seat from across mine. "He asked me not to keep you too late."

I roll my eyes. This is it. Boys really are stupid. "He didn't have to tell you that."

"And you didn't have to be angry with him." Cecelia sighs. She runs a hand through her brown hair. It cascades down her face like crumpled silk: wavy, flowy, and beautiful all the same. The tension from earlier is now gone. Perhaps it jumped on me. "Tell me what's upsetting you."

I shrug. If I speak up, she'll know I'm lying. Cecelia has motherly instincts I wouldn't want to cross.

"It's not the dress, isn't it?" She asks. I shake my head. "The reaping, then?" I nod.

She looks at me with concern, and for a split second, her eyes grow big with what looks like fear. "You… you don't have to worry about the reaping."

"It's not just the reaping," I settle the glass on the table. "It's Nidle, too. I just… I don't understand him. I don't even understand _why_ I want to understand him!" I tell her about Nidle acting nonchalant about the reaping when he has thirty-five slips in. I tell her how confused that makes me every year, as if he reaping did not matter to him at all. "What ticks me off is I now he's scared, too." I tell her, the frustration blowing off like steam. "It feels like… he's making light of me. Of everyone, since he acts all… confident about all of this." I shake my head. "I don't get why he won't tell me, even though… I've told him many things before."

"Masking his fear with confidence, or with joy, is his defense mechanism." Cecelia says, her hands knitting fast. "I know other people like that. Maybe Nidle doesn't want you to worry about him."

The talk of Nidle is leaving my shoulders light, but tired. "And I just had to fight him. Today of all days. I mean, what if I get reaped tomorrow? Or he does? How can I apologize to him?"

Cecelia stops looping the thread into another one. She looks at me, a stare too intense it makes me feel strange. "You won't get reaped."

I shrug. "What makes you sure, Ces? Anyone can get reaped."

Her intense stare softens, as if to console me about the words I've said. She doesn't say anything after that, which makes me feel uneasy. "I'm sorry," I apologize before the silence can become deafening. "I'm on edge and all but I don't have to be an ass about it. Please don't get mad at me."

She puts down the sweater again, and pushes it to the center of the table. "I always did something the nights before the reaping," she says, "that is, before I got reaped." She smiles, her gaze at the floor too far away. She probably isn't with me now, in her mind. "I made dolls out of rags while eating the district bread."

"How did it feel like?" I ask her. "When the escort called your name?"

"I was listening too well." Cecelia laughs. She was all ears. It wasn't anything different from the teacher calling your name for daily attendance, she says. By the time the escort had been done saying her name, she was in the custody of the peacekeepers, taking small but sure steps towards the stage. "My knees felt like giving out. I cried, too. Who wouldn't, after all?"

"Okay, nice advice. Listen well, just walk, don't cry. Suck it in." I say. It's good advice, although from here on it probably wouldn't work for me.

"You're rubbing your hands together again." Cecelia says, and after a few seconds she is beside me, rubbing my shoulder. The gesture soothes me, and my hands stay still on my lap. "Everything's going to be okay." She whispers, like a mother cooing to her baby.

"Thanks, Ces." I say, although her last words have done nothing to assure me. "I have to go home now, though." Mom's coming back late, and I have to cook dinner.

Cecelia stands up, heads into the kitchen. She hands a bag over to me. It's heavy. She nods towards the bag, and I check it. Inside are various types of food: vegetables, fruits, a couple of spices, bottles of drinks. A smile forms on my lips. "Are you sure I can have this?" The last thing I want is for Cecelia to think that I am abusing her kindness. It's not always right to just take and take when someone gives you something.

"It's your payment. For babysitting the kids." She replies. I zip the bag up and thank her again before heading towards the door. "I'll tell them you came by."

My hand touches the doorknob. "Thank you, Ces. For everything."

She smiles back at me. "I'll see you tomorrow."

A cry erupts from upstairs. "You should check up on him." I say, and twist the knob.

"Be careful." She says, and heads for the staircase.

I go out of the door with a fuzzy feeling. The negative feelings from before have mostly gone, thanks to Cecelia. Thoughts about Nidle have flown out the window. Who cares if he doesn't want to be honest with me? It's his choice. I don't need to fuss over him like I'm his mother, or his girlfriend, which I am not—

"I thought you'd never come out." The sound of his voice surprises me that I miss a step on the stairs. I yelp, but he manages to catch me in his arms, which are pretty strong. I lift my head up and see Nidle's face inches from mine, his blue eyes smiling, but not with his trademark mischief.

_Damn it._

"What the—" I push him away as soon as I find my footing. "Why are you—how are—what are you still doing here?" I sputter out. I am suddenly conscious of how I look. I start running my fingers through my hair to get the tangles out, dust off my dress and smoothen it with my palms.

He laughs, but not like the ones from earlier. This laugh is more airy, more genuine, more… Nidle. For some reason, I feel my cheeks grow hot. "Come on, let's go home." He takes my hand again and starts leading the way out of the gate of the Victor's Village.

_Maybe Nidle doesn't want you to worry about him,_ Cecelia said. Did he purposely wait for me? It seems like a hard job reading Nidle, but somewhere inside my brain I know it isn't. Under his complicated façade, he's still a simple boy. "You didn't answer my question." His hand fits perfectly with mine. How many times have we held hands? Only when I relieved the moments in my head did I find it out to be many.

"Paylor's shift for me doesn't start until eight. I wanted to see you get home safe. Weaver could be lurking inside your tenement."

"Stupid. You just wanted to hold my hand and walk me home."

The crunching sound of gravel beneath our feet masks my growing unease. I like the touch of his hand in mine, yes, but can I even revel in it? After all, I kind of threw him out of Cecelia's house earlier! And now, the silence he's making seems like something more than silence. It actually bothers me.

"Nidle?" I begin.

"Hmm?" He answers, never letting go.

I swallow my pride. "I'm sorry about earlier. I was a terrible ass to you."

"You always are, Anya." He says with a chuckle.

"Terrible? I guess I am."

"That's just one of the things I like about you." It's a throwaway statement, something not meant as deep as it sounds probably. Nidle likes saying confusing things. Still, it makes my heart skip a beat.

"Well, I don't like you being dishonest with me." We turn right round the corner. Several children run by, playing a game of tag.

"When have I been dishonest with you?"

"Shut up, okay? Just accept the fact that you don't like discussing your feelings with me."

"Wow. You're really terrible."

"Shut up, stupid."

We walk in silence for a few more blocks. The lights from the tenements are already slowly lighting up one by one. The need to get home makes me itch, but at the same time, I don't want Nidle to leave. I've already apologized to him, yet why does it feel like I'm still missing something?

"Cecelia told me you like masking your fears so I wouldn't worry about you." I blurt out. I beat myself mentally. My free hand flies over to my mouth. I just had to be stupid.

He chuckles, but his grip on my hand tightens. "Cecelia knows a lot of things."

"It's true, then?" I look at him, eyes wide. "You don't like me worrying about you?"

"I'm not ready for this discussion, Anya." He looks on, craning his neck to see even further. "There, I can see your building."

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing it." He quickens his pace. It feels like he's racing towards my tenement, but I don't pull away. A gush of wind blows through, and it feels like a slap to the face.

"Well, you're steering away from it!"

"I just don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"Blah, blah! Don't you trust me with your feelings? I trust you with mine! "

"Drop it, Anya."

I roll my eyes. "Don't tell me this is some kind of romantic stuff where a guy doesn't want a girl worrying about him because he cares about her well-being and it would absolutely _kill_ him to see the girl hurting over the stuff that hurt him?"

He stops all of a sudden. My face hits his back. Oh no. Did I just say what he was really thinking? Am I right to even say that? I can't take him being angry at me again, not when I have just apologized!

"Nidle?" His name comes out as a whimper.

"We're here." He says simply.

I step backward to see. True to his words, we are here, in front of my tenement. Our room is already lit, and I can see Dad's silhouette inside their room. I breathe a sigh of relief. Good. He didn't stop because he's mad at me. He releases my hand from his, and I take small steps towards the stairs. Before I get to the first step, I turn to him and offer a shaky smile.

"See you tomorrow, then." I say to him. "And thanks for walking me home."

He's not looking at me. He's looking at the pavement, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He mutters something I can't hear. "What?" I say.

"What you said earlier," his voice louder this time, "was true."

I search my brain for the words I said. "What? That you were steering away from the subject?" I raise my hands in mock surrender. "If you don't want to talk about it, fine."

"The romantic stuff," he says, still looking down, "is true."

His words are like the sound of clapping lightning after it strikes. You know it's coming—you anticipate it, but the moment it comes, it still takes you away by surprise.

My knees feel weak. I'd been anticipating words like these from him ever since the day Iris told me that Nidle might have a crush on me. So why am I feeling breathless? Why can I hear my heartbeat pounding inside my ears? I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. It feels like my face is growing hotter and hotter by the second.

"I…" I choke out. "I have to get inside."

"Yeah," his voice is a whisper away, "see you tomorrow."

I turn my back towards him, and then, the world whirls by. I can feel the warm touch of a palm to my wrist, guiding me to where he is. I can see Nidle's blue eyes, inches away from me, growing closer and closer and closer…

Until our lips meet.

It's a soft, sweet kiss, not like the sloppy ones young boys give. I close my eyes and breathe in his scent. His arm slithers around my waist, and before I know it, my hands are around his neck. I've been anticipating this, thinking about this, and somehow, it still takes my breath away. It's like how I felt when Garett and I shared a moment like this. _No,_ I remind myself. _Don't bring it back_. Nidle's here, he's the one kissing me, not the boy in Iris' arms. I shouldn't be thinking about him.

If I had all the time in the world, I would never let him go, but I don't. Slowly, I release him from my embrace, and part my lips from his. Nidle's face is red, shades away from Iris' dress. I've never seen his face like this. It's probably because he doesn't want me to see it in the first place. I know my face is flushed, too. Let him see, for all I care.

He smiles. "I have to go."

"Sure." I say, forgetting how to properly breathe.

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"Wear something nice."

"Not for you, stupid."

He leaves me with a grin and the memory of a first kiss. I watch as he walks away, his silhouette fading as his feet go on, his back becoming smaller and smaller. Only when he is gone do I bring a finger to my lips, tracing its outline, the part where he kissed me.

I smile to myself. Boys are really stupid.


	3. The Reaping

**Chapter Three: The Reaping**

I've learned how to sleep through the distant purrs of the factories, but this time around, I close my eyes and do not drift off like usual. I try and try again though, like every year, and finally, sleep comes. However, sleep meant dreams, too, and the one I have is horrible.

It starts with the anthem of Panem, booming and larger than life. The kids eligible for the reaping are all line up in front of the stage. I see Nidle and Garett in their age group, but when I look over my area, it's only me and Iris standing. Vergil Wellwood appears, speaking in his snobbish Capitol accent. When he heads over to the glass ball and picks out a name, his voice is as clear as the first summer day: "Iris Trent!"

The ground below me starts to turn to mush, and I slowly sink. Iris starts walking towards the stage, an absolute dream in her red dress. Her face is etched with hardness. I call out her name, for her to wait for me, but no sound comes out of my mouth. As she walks, her feet leave behind footprints of blood—crimson blood that fills the air with a scent of burning cloth.

I am slowly sinking, doing nothing but scream voiceless screams and reach out my hands for her. _Don't go, _I yell, _don't leave!_ When she climbs all the steps to the stage and rests besides Vergil Wellwood, Iris erupts into ash. With one last scream, the sky closes above me.

I wake up to Cliff's soft snores. My face is wet from crying from the nightmare. Is it even over now? I squeeze my pillow and pinch myself for good measure. Yes, it's over. Iris didn't get reaped, and I didn't sink in a pile of mush. Everything's alright.

_For now,_ a nasty little voice whispers in my ear.

"Everything alright, Anya?" It's Mom. She's standing by the doorway. It's too dark to see what she looks like, but I now she has her worried face on.

I scratch my eyes. "Mom? Yeah. Just had a dream."

She walks silently over to my bed. In the moonlight, Mom looks younger. She's still beautiful, even with three kids and double shifts in the factories. Beautiful, like the stories about her go. The circles under her eyes have gotten smaller, that the Mom from two years before is nothing but a memory. She's still working hard, though, by the tired look on her face. I've told her not to work as hard as before, now that I help out with Cecelia, but she always tells me no, that we can't afford to rest in turmoil.

Mom pats me on the head gently. Her smile makes me feel comfort, though not enough to erase the nightmare completely from my head. "I can watch you until you sleep, if you like."

I shake my head but give her an embrace. Thank goodness she has meat on her body now. Everything seemed to go downhill the day Dad lost his legs, but we found a way out. We're still finding a way to live. "You need to rest, too. I'm sure the wardens will slave-drive us again after the reaping is done."

She kisses my forehead. "Come to me if you need anything, okay?"

I yawn. "Thanks, Mom."

I close my eyes, and this time, drift off to sleep easier than before. The dreams are running rampant, still. I dream of Weaver getting a hold of me, dragging me to the stage and forcing me to read out my name from the glass ball. I dream that Nidle is reaped, and before I have the chance to say goodbye to him, bombs rain down on District 8. The only solace in my dreams is the one where I relive my kiss with Garett, and later on, my kiss with Nidle. So many dreams and yet they all boil down to one thing: the reaping tomorrow.

By the time I wake up, breakfast is ready. The bed beside mine is empty, the sheets folded and the pillows propped. I can hear utensils clinking from outside. Everyone is already at the dining table, eating.

Mom adds a pinch of cinnamon to Bron's porridge. My younger brother wrinkles his nose. "Come on and eat, Anya."

I ruffle Cliff's hair before sitting on my chair. Dad greets me a good morning, and I greet him back. He is halfway done with his bowl of porridge, but his cup of tea sits undisturbed. "Did you get a good night's sleep?" He asks me. I know it's small talk, but I indulge him.

"Oh, the usual." I take a spoonful of porridge. It tastes bland even though Mom has probably put sugar in it. "Cliff snores so loud I have a hard time dreaming."

Cliff rolls his eyes. "Yeah, good morning too, Anya."

I wish every reaping morning would be like our usual mornings, where we banter with fun, tell stories from the previous days. But with the reaping looming over us, I cannot help but feel the banter we're having right now seems artificial.

Bron swirls his porridge with his spoon. "I hate tesserae."

Dad raises his eyebrows. "Well, your sister already got the share for the month. We can't let it go to waste."

Bron looks at me. "Cecelia gave you food yesterday, right?" He turns to Mom. "Can't we eat that today instead?"

Mom shakes her head. "We can't rely on everything Cecelia gives, Bron. We shouldn't abuse her kindness."

"And she's going to the Capitol, you dolt." Cliff tells him. I notice Dad look at him sternly at the word 'dolt.' "She won't be giving us food for a whole month."

Bron forces another spoonful of tesserae porridge in his mouth. "Boo." He grimaces after he's swallowed.

"You know what's cool, Bron?" I say. At the word 'cool,' his ears perk up. "If all the boys in your age group know that you like tesserae."

"But I hate tesserae!" He whines.

"As do most of them!" I point at him with my spoon. "But if they think you _like_ tesserae, they're going to start thinking, 'Wow! Bron likes tesserae! He's so strong and brave for liking tesserae!'"

Cliff snorts. "Yeah, like that'll happen—" I kick him under the table. Mom hears the thud, and gives me a stern look.

"Trust me, Bron. All the cool boys in my grade like tesserae." Of course they don't. _I_ don't even like tesserae myself. It's bland and scratchy when you eat it, but it helps our family get through. The last thing I want is Bron rejecting tesserae, even if it's the only thing left on our dinner table. "And people _love _them for it."

Without proposing another argument, Bron finishes the dreadful tesserae porridge. Dad gives me a grateful smile while Mom gives me a wink. We spend minutes talking. It's one of the things we get to actually do on Reaping Day, even if it does feel a little artificial. Cliff tells us how well he did on a test yesterday. Dad tells a story about a creature called a mermaid, half-fish and half-human.

Bron looks enticed. "Where'd you hear that?" He asks, his eyes wide as saucers.

Dad shrugs playfully. "From somewhere."

I have nothing to tell, so I pass on the baton to Mom. She tells us what happened at work yesterday, how one of the wardens liked the beadwork she'd done on a dress. Mom does great handiwork that some of the other workers ask her for lessons with it. You would think that in the factories it is the machines that do all the work, but nowadays, it's the rave in the Capitol to have hand-sewn items in their repertoire. Another hour passes with us just talking, laughing.

It's ten o'clock when Mom says, "Anya, you should take a bath. I'll lay out your clothes for you."

I don't object, even though I feel like vomiting the tesserae porridge out of my system. The nerves are working their way again. The walk to the bathroom is a short one, but this time, with my feet feeling like lead, it seems like I'm trying my hardest to get to the bathroom. When the water hits my skin, I shiver. I scrub hard to get the grime off my body, and wash my hair so it would smell nice. After all, Nidle might think of smelling me.

I enter the room as soon as I am done. Mom is there, laying out my clothes. She gingerly lays out a green dress on the bed. I've never seen it before, but I know it's not new. I've told Mom before not to buy me new clothes unless I really need them. We could use the money for other things, anyway. She looks up at me and says, "I'll come back when you're ready," before heading out and closing the door.

I feel like moving slower than usual, though I don't know why. After getting dressed in my undergarments, I sit down next to the dress. It's been ironed out, how it could've been I have the strangest desire to know. I focus on the details: it has long sleeves and the skirt would probably reach my knees if I wore it. I touch the dress and feel its softness in my fingertips. The skirt has pocket slits and on the waist are small belt loops. The neckline has small embroidered details: flowers and leaves and squiggly lines. All of a sudden, Iris' red dress comes to mind. That one really is beautiful, but this dress is beautiful in its own right.

I don't waste another minute. I wear it carefully. It fits like a dream. I don't need pins, or knots to make it fit on me. I roll up the sleeves until it stops at my arms, and the skirt stops at the middle of my knees. I twirl in front of the mirror, feeling elated and happy, until I remember what day it is, and the reason why I'm wearing such a beautiful dress. Reaping clothes. I am being happy over reaping clothes. A bitter taste rises in my throat.

Mom knocks on the door. "Ready?" I open it for her. When she sees me, she looks like she is going to cry. She cups my face in her hands gently. "You're so beautiful, Anya."

I smile sheepishly. "Thanks, Mom."

It's laughable how I look beautiful on the day where death lingers close to our homes. The thought makes me want to cry, but I manage to hold back my tears. I will not ruin Mom's good mood with my pity party.

"Let's fix your hair." She makes me sit on the bed and goes to work almost immediately. She combs it out gently. It feels as if she's massaging my scalp, too. "You've grown it out very well, dear." She says.

"You said once you liked long hair." I say. My hair doesn't grow that fast, though. It's taken years for me to get it this long, to the middle of my back. Mom ties it up in a higher-than-average ponytail, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face. When I look at the mirror, it's still me, although I must admit I am prettier. Nidle might just grow red in the face again. "Thanks, Mom. For fixing my hair. And the dress, too." I hear Dad and Cliff and Bron playing outside. Dad's laugh is definitely airy than before, in the early days of his accident. I'm so glad he can laugh like that now. I run my hands on the skirt of my dress. Only then do I realize what this truly is. "Was this your reaping dress?" I ask my mother softly.

She nods. "For the last three years of the reaping."

"Oh."

"Do you like the color? They call this shade _avocado green_."

"It's really beautiful."

"That dress was good luck for me." She smiles. She puts a hand on my shoulder. "It will be for you, too."

I want to tell her to not be so sure. But she's my mom, so I don't. "I bet it is." I smile.

There are tears forming in her eyes. I could feel my eyes growing hot. I don't want to see Mom cry. She puts a hand on my cheek and speaks, her voice firm and knowing and assuring. "You won't get reaped this year, Anya."

And I can't stop it anymore. A tear escapes. "But Mom," I say, my voice high and cracking, "I have thirty slips."

She takes me in her arms. Mom's embrace is warm, yet it doesn't make me feel safer. "The number of slips doesn't matter." Her voice is cracking too. She kisses me on the forehead. "Their odds won't be in your favor today."

I let myself believe her. After all, what's the point of trying to fight it? I'll just go along, like always, and blame the Capitol at the end of the day. I long for the day we won't be subjected to this kind of monstrosity anymore.

It is before noon when we head out. I'm in charge of wheeling Dad to the square. My brothers and I try to make him comfortable going down the ramp, but Cliff is being bossy.

"You need to do this!" He tells me. He sounds infuriated which makes _me_ feel infuriated.

"No! He might fall that way!" I snap at him, and that's when Garett arrives.

"Need help?" He smiles.

"Thank you." I sigh. "Get out of the way, twerp." I tell my brother, and he does, with his tongue sticking out at me. Garett and I wheel Dad down the ground.

"Thanks, Garett." Dad says to him. "Is your father with you?"

"Yes," Garett replies. As if on cue, Killian appears. He offers to wheel Dad for me, and I accept. They're like best friends, the two of them. Mom holds Cliff and Bron by the hand. With this much people coming out of their houses, Mom would want the boys to stick to her side.

"You look nice." Garett tells me as we watch my family and his dad walk in front of us.

I have the stupid tendency to blush. "Thanks." I get a good look at him, too. He is wearing beige trousers and a light blue button-down shirt. The color of his shirt highlights his green eyes. Iris must've given the clothes to him. She knows how much this shade of blue looks good on Garett's skin. "You have a nice shirt."

He laughs, his dimples showing. "Iris picked it out. It's an old shirt of her dad's."

"Doesn't it feel weird? Wearing her dad's shirt?" I joke. I am actually amazed at how Garett and I managed to make things don't feel changed between us. Like that stormy day did not matter at all. Like it was just a part of my imagination.

This makes me think we're both good liars.

"It feels classy." He says.

We are close to the square when I Nidle comes up to my side. He is handsome in a simple white button-down shirt and khaki pants. His hair is pushed back, and out of the way of his blue eyes. Wait: is it just me, or did he look even more attractive after we kissed? I feel my cheeks flush, and when I tell him hi, it sounds more like a squeak rather than a confident greeting. I still try to play it cool, because Garett is watching.

"You did wear something nice," he says in his normal tone. I raise my eyebrows. Has he forgotten about what happened yesterday? Ugh, I feel sick. Embarrassed, really, but sick too. "Hey, Garett."

"Hey." Garett greets back.

My defense mechanism kicks in. "I'm not wearing this for you, stupid."

"Don't be so modest, Anya." He laughs, and we reach the square.

There are more peacekeepers today, littered all around the square. The Justice Building has been decorated with the lavish gold and red colors of Panem banners. It's laughable how the Capitol decorates the whole area to make it feel like an actual festivity rather than an execution block. The stage has been set up, and so has the rope that will fence us off from our families and the ones not eligible for the reaping. Dozens of kids are already lined up to get their blood drawn. A nauseating feeling in my stomach starts to form.

Garett leans towards us. "Happy Hunger Games." He says with a strained smile.

"Happy Hunger Games." Nidle and I say together. Nidle and Garett tell me their see-you-laters, and head off to the long table where the other peacekeepers draw blood. Before I can take a step towards the table for the girls' area, someone touches me on the shoulder. It's Mom, with a pained look on her face. She's trying to conceal it with a smile, and the outcome is horrible.

I can't bear to look at her anymore. "I'll see you later." I grunt as I head towards the table.

Afterwards, when my blood is drawn, I am herded into the line of female sixteen-year-olds, two age groups away from the stage. Unlike last year, I can see the stage more clearly now. Above it is a large television screen where the emblem of Panem dances. There are five chairs set up on the stage, and I know who they are for: one for the mayor, three for our three living victors, and one for the district escort. I remember our conversation at Iris' yesterday: what _will_ Vergil Wellwood look like this year?

The large clock of the Justice Building says that it is fifteen minutes from one o'clock. That's when they start taking the stage, our victors. Woof, dressed in a simple dark blue suit, comes up, escorted by Cecelia. Woof's not as strong and sharp as he used to be. He's now a senile victor, but a victor nonetheless. Cecelia has to help him take a seat, too. Dad said once that it's a miracle that Woof is still alive. The age expectancy of our district doesn't go beyond seventy, seventy-five on a good day.

The most recent victor for our district, Zander Brean, takes the seat next to the mayor's. I only see him on days when Cecelia cooks this awesome soup of hers, and I find him to be pretty stoic. Cecelia says that Zander doesn't like interacting with many people, and that he chooses his friends carefully so he can count them on one hand. The people don't tire of him, though. He's still considered a hero in our town.

As soon as they are seated, Cecelia leans over to Zander and whispers something to him. From where I am standing, I see him smile in response.

I look over to my sides. All of the girls in my line look grim. We've had these looks ever since our eligibility for the reaping began. Not only because of the 'solemnity' of the ceremony, but mainly because of our impending doom, like soot filling the sky. I sigh and look at the pavement beneath me.

It takes a few minutes more before Iris squeezes herself next to me. "Happy Hunger Games." She breathes, before sucking in air to catch her breath. She's wearing the red dress which compliments her pale complexion and her brown hair which is tied up in an intricate bun. Us girls in the line probably look like washerwomen compared to her. I force back a smile and set my attention back to the stage.

Mayor Trent comes out of the Justice Building, and strides to the podium. He greets us all a pleasant afternoon when he reaches the microphone, and then begins his monotonous speech. The sound of his voice makes me want to yawn, but I distract myself by trying to peek over at Nidle's and Garett's line without giving too much away. The video of Panem's history begins playing on the huge screen, and that's when I hear a slight change to the mayor's voice: an addition of disgust. It's not easy to notice, but it's there. When a montage of the previous Hunger Games plays, I look at the floor. Will I be in the montage next year? I really hope not. I cannot help but feel disgust as well. "This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."

He starts reading off of the list of the past victors of 8—some of them gone, some of them here, like Woof, Cecelia, and Zander, when Iris whispers under her breath. "Almost there."

"Vergil Wellwood, the escort of District Eight." He ends off, and a man with a poufy blue wig walks up to the stage, a big grin on his face.

"Happy Hunger Games!" The escort bellows. I take in how different he looks from last year, with the blue wig and pale, white skin, as white as a Peacekeeper's uniform. None of our guesses from our conversation from yesterday were right, but he stills looks horrifying. The only thing that remains recognizable from him is his face, but even that isn't enough to make him look normal. "Citizens of District Eight, welcome to the reaping for the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games!" He claps with so much fervor that several of the citizens join us. Maybe they don't want him to be embarrassed. I give a limited amount of claps: two or three at most.

"This year will be wonderful. I just know it." His voice is low and husky, something that would've been attractive if he just didn't look so weird. "Let's begin, shall we?" He strides over to the large, glass ball filled with thousands of slips. I can feel my heart falling faster and faster by the minute. "Ladies first." His tone is darker by then, kind of menacing. He digs his hand deep into the bowl and starts fishing for a name.

I close my eyes. How many slips did I have again? Thirty? And how many does Iris have again? Five? I want to laugh at how pathetic this all seems, how certain death can be determined by just a single slip. But still, there are _so_ many slips that I start to wonder that maybe Cecelia and Mom are right: I won't get reaped. I'm wearing Mom's lucky dress, for good measure too. To be on the safe side, maybe I won't even get reaped _at all_. Maybe I can live past eighteen and start a family of my own, with Nidle perhaps. We would get married, live in a tenement of our own, have kids… _Kids!_ Having kids would mean subjecting them to the horrors of the Games. I don't think I can have that. And would Nidle _even_ make a great parent? He couldn't even be honest about his feelings with me until yesterday! Who's to say that he would indeed make a great father—

"No." Iris says so loudly that I almost jump. I haven't even realized how lost I was in my thoughts! I look around to see if someone has finally been picked, only to see people looking at me, their faces either plainly unknowing, or horrified. I turn to Iris to ask if I say something out loud.

But I didn't. Vergil Wellwood did.

"Anya Sowe!" He calls out again. In a flash of confusion, I look at the huge screen to see my own face staring back at me.

The flash of confusion disappears.

I have been reaped.

_I've been reaped_.

It surprises me how easily I can still breathe. Inhale, exhale. I can still hear Iris saying the word 'no' beside me when I start walking towards the four Peacekeepers that are waiting to escort me to the stage. Then, I am only conscious of the sounds of my steps on the pavement, the creak of the wooden floorboards when I step on them to get to the stage, to be set beside blue-haired Vergil Wellwood. My defense mechanism kicked in the moment I realized what was happening. I hear things, but I am filtering out the voices. From somewhere, I can hear Mom sobbing. She sounds so far away. Like, a few blocks away from the stage.

My knees are shaking, I can feel it. It feels like an earthquake is happening, or the sensation I get when I run too much and stand for a few more minutes instead of sitting down immediately. My throat has long gone dry. My hands are balled into fists. I am staring at the people below and beyond me. There's Lacey, the female bully from school who always spoke her mind about my friendship with Iris. She's jealous of us, that little bitch. I guess she's not jealous of me anymore.

There's Iris, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst a palette directly the opposite of red. She looks terrified. My eyes wander over to the boys' side. It's not too long before I see Weaver, his face still swollen from Nidle's punch. In the line before him is Garett who is looking at me, mouth slightly open, and then there's Nidle. Handsome, stupid Nidle, glaring at me with furrowed brows, as if he's asking me, "And what do you think _you're_ doing there?" Like it's a sin to be here, on the stage, looking at him.

I can't even say sorry to him. My defense mechanism has left me passive. I can't cry even if I want to. I can't force the tears to come.

A warm palm touches my back. "How old are you, Miss Sowe?" Vergil asks.

The steadiness in my voice surprises me. How I can still think clearly leaves me baffled. "Sixteen."

"Glorious," he simply says, and he begins to walk to the glass ball filled with the slips of the males. "Are there any volunteers to take the place of Anya Sowe right here?" No one raises their hands, not even Iris. Of course, no one would volunteer for me. No one in 8 sees going into the Games as an act of honor: all that's there is death. But I still look at Iris, anticipating the moment when she would raise her hand. "Looks like I get to keep the beauty this year." Vergil chuckles.

"And now," he speaks in the same menacing tone before, "for the boys."

I want to laugh at myself. What was I thinking? Of course, there's no way Iris would volunteer for me. No matter how deep a friendship is, the Games can go ahead and destroy it. I've seen that story played out so many times now that I should consider it a foreign concept. It breaks my heart, but I understand. At the very least, I _have_ to understand.

"Garett Stear!" Vergil announces.

I take it all back. I don't understand anything at all.

Garett doesn't need to hear his name again. Standing straight, he heads over to the custody of the peacekeepers and calmly walks towards the stage. It's as if he's been called to accept a medal of valor instead of being called to die. It's only when he reaches the stage do I grasp the whole situation.

I want to scream. Why me? Why him? _Why us?_

Vergil asks his age, and he says sixteen. No kids want to take his place, same as me. Not even Nidle. From my eyes, it seems like betrayal, not one of them standing up for us, but I have to forgive. I feel weak. Mom lied to me. Her dress isn't good luck at all. Cecelia lied too. She said everything's was going to be okay. They're all liars.

From faraway, it sounds like the mayor is reading the Treaty of Treason. When he is done, Garett and I are urged to shake hand by the district escort.

I've held this hand before. The familiarity of his grip makes me realize how stupid all of this is. How _cruel_ all of this is. I manage to look Garett in the eye. He looks straight back at me. He doesn't say a word but I know what he's telling me.

"_The odds were in our favor today."_


	4. Goodbye, Home

**Chapter Four: Goodbye, Home**

The minute the door closes behind me, I slump on the floor. I beg myself to cry, but I still can't. I don't know why it's so, but no tears spill out. Instead, I am left with a feeling of emptiness somewhere in my chest. I try to recount everything that happened, how my chances of getting reaped had been high from the start.

I'm a stupid little girl for believing what they told me, that I'm not going to get reaped today. I ate in their words like eating through a fruit, both with pleasure and guilt. I see my hand trembling as I reach out for a velvet pillow resting on the couch. I clutch it close to me, clutch it hard, thinking how things would've played out differently.

What difference would it even make? I'm already here.

The door opens, and Bron comes running inside, hugging me tightly. He is already crying. My little baby brother who doesn't like tesserae, who scrunches up his face after he trips to look cool, is on the floor with me, snot and tears running down his face. I would've laughed at that sight of him, but no. That feeling has been robbed off me.

There it comes. It feels like a strong punch to the stomach. I start crying. It's not even the nice sort of crying where tears roll down your cheek and you sniff. This is the type of ugly crying, with snot dripping out of my nose, my voice sounding like a newborn baby. I'm wailing loud enough, probably to be heard outside and all over this side of the district.

And then it's Mom hugging me. She's crying, too. Of course she would be. Her daughter has just been reaped for the Hunger Games. Her daughter whom has been by her side for sixteen years, is suddenly leaving and might never, ever come back.

"Mom," I wail, "I don't want to go!"

She tries her best to soothe me, I can tell. She tells me how much she loves me, how I can still go home. She tells me that everything is going to be okay, everything will be fine. I want to protest, that it's going to be nothing but gray skies from here throughout, but I can't. I cry and cry into her arms.

Dad wheels himself to me. His expression is hard, but I can see that his chin is quivering. I blow my nose on the handkerchief Mom gave me. I've seen Dad make that face before: it's the same as the day when the doctor told him that they need to take away his legs. He won't cry today, though. I know. When he cries, this will all be over.

I embrace him. "I'm sorry, Dad." I hiccup. I don't know why I apologize for something I clearly cannot control, but I don't have any other words to say.

"I love you so much, Anya." Dad tells me. He gives me a last kiss on the forehead.

"Win it." I turn around and see Cliff: there's a hard expression on his face, but tears are starting to form in his eyes. He's trying hard to be like Dad, strong and firm. I put my hand on his cheek and try to smile, but I fail horribly. "Win it," he repeats, "win it and come home."

"It's not that easy, twerp." My voice breaks. We've watched a lot of games together. Winning has never been an easy feat.

"You'll try." He says. Cliff having a better resolve than I do would have been amusing. It's just not the same anymore. "You'll win and come back home."

I shrug. "I guess I've no choice, then?" The level of my determination to win the Hunger Games is now up by about ten percent.

The five minutes allotted for us seems to pass by so quickly. A Peacekeeper knocks and opens the door, telling us that we have about a minute left to say our goodbyes. Frantic embraces are exchanged, more tears are shed, I love you's become more resonant. Mom tells me how much she loves me, that she will be waiting for me to come back home.

At least in this Game, I have about four people already rooting for me.

They are ushered outside by a Peacekeeper, and the door closes behind me. From the other side, I could hear the hushed cries of Bron as I press my ear to the door, and I start crying again. I slump back to the floor, my back pressed against the armrest of the couch, huddled up in my own arms, the weight of the realization pressing over my shoulders.

Bron's crying. I'm going in to the arena. I might die. I might not come back at all.

A few seconds pass by. The door opens and in comes Nidle, looking breathless. He sees me on the floor and has no trouble taking me in his arms. I can't pinpoint the exact moment where he began to show strong arms. How can he even _have_ strong arms in a district that does nothing but push buttons in factories? I sniff and catch his scent. He smells like soap. The smell makes me cry all over again. He tells me that things will work out, that I'll be fine, that we'll be fine.

"I'm scared." I hiccup as he rubs my back.

"Cecelia's there. She'll help you." He takes my hand in his, and starts rubbing my knuckles with his thumb. The gesture is comforting. He rests his chin on my shoulder.

"Garett's there, too." Nidle doesn't say anything about that. He's busy rubbing my knuckles still. I look at the door, wondering if other people are coming. I ask the question I already know the answer to, from the moment I ascended the stairs to this room. "Is Iris coming?"

The shaking of his head leaves a little bit of pain on my shoulder. The tears start welling up in my eyes again. "But she's my best friend." I protest. We've been through a lot of things together. She's the first person I told about my first kiss. I'm the only one who knows how she pretends to like the district bread just because it's Garett's favorite. The only thing Iris doesn't know about me is my kiss with her boyfriend from a year back.

"Garett needs her support." Nidle simply says.

_And I don't?_ I want to tell him, but I don't. All I need to do is understand why Iris would only go to Garett. She's his girlfriend, that's one reason. They have more things to talk about, rather than she with me. She'd be more crestfallen if he's the one who doesn't get to go home. "You're not going to him, then?"

He nods. How cruel. The reaping has already proceeded and is now ruining our friendship. I never thought that this would be the end for the four of us. I sob and sob at how unfair this all is. Why me, of all the girls? Why Garett? Why do Nidle and Iris have to only support one of us? I feel Nidle straightening; his hand wipes my tears away while the other one still rubs my knuckles. "This is so unfair," I whine. "And we just kissed yesterday, too—"

As if on cue, he kisses me again. But it's nothing like the kiss we had yesterday, one that was so abrupt and unexperienced. This kiss is stronger, more hopeful, more urgent. He is so close to me, I can feel his breath on my face, the sweetness of his lips mixing in with the saltiness of my tears. It's the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, desperate for more. I can't stop myself from wanting him more, for his lips never to leave mine, but I know I must. I can't stay here like I want to. I _have_ to go. I don't want to be more familiar with his lips, with his taste, because I know I'll miss it when I'm gone, and I can't have that if I want to win and come back for my family, for him.

The stupid Peacekeeper enters the room while we are catching our breaths. His eyes flicker over to us, and seeing that he interrupted us in our precious moment, he holds up one finger. "One minute," he says, and he goes out the room again. I would have found it to be very funny if only I wasn't going to the slaughterhouse.

I hold Nidle's hand and kiss it. I take in the sight of him, quite possibly for the last time. His hair is all over the place again, covering his wonderfully blue eyes. I push his hair back and sigh wistfully. "I should've cut your hair sooner." I let my hand stay there, and he holds it.

"Cut it when you come home." He says, his eyes looking into mine. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes again.

"If I get home."

"You will." He says, trying to sound like his usual self. Somehow, his smile hurts me.

"Say goodbye to Iris for me."

"Got it."

"Tell my family I love them the moment my cannon sounds, okay?"

"You'll tell them yourself. You'll come home."

"I love you, okay?"

His grip tightens. "I love you, too."

The peacekeeper enters and we both stand up. He kisses my hand before heading for the door. He turns back and smiles. "Don't get too comfortable in the Capitol, okay?"

I had to laugh. If this is going to be the last memory I give him, so be it. "I won't, stupid."

The last smile, and the door closes behind him. I sit on the couch. Will I get more visitors? I highly doubt it. I guess I'm not the kind of person that has touched people's lives in a big way. I fiddle with the tassel of the pillow as the minutes pass by. Are they minutes, or seconds? I'm not sure. All I know is I don't want to be alone now.

There's a knock on the door. I compose myself, thinking that maybe someone had a change of heart and wanted to say goodbye to me, but when the door opens, Vergil Wellwood is there, grinning. At least is teeth are still white. Garett is at his side, a small smile on his face. I cannot help but smile a little, too. It's strange, how suddenly comforted I feel although we may as well die by each other's hands right now.

"There is the pretty one, the sweetcheeks." Vergil greets me, gesturing for me to come closer. "Your mentors are boarding the train this very moment. We mustn't be late." His Capitol accent fills me ears. Before I could trail behind them, I look behind me, at this very room where I said my goodbyes. The carpet is probably stained with many of my tears and snot. I can hear Bron crying all over again, so before I could cry, I swallow my feelings and move on. At the back of the Justice Building an auto is waiting for us—just walking to the train station would take hours. We file in there, Garett and I sitting beside each other. We don't speak just yet, the pain and shock still raw. Vergil isn't as talkative as I pegged him to be. He lights up a white stick in between his lips, inhales, and exhales smoke, which makes me feel nauseated. I've seen Zander do this a few times at Cecelia's house, only for her to swat the stick away every time he attempted to light one up.

It only takes us fifteen minutes to get to the train station. Outside the vehicle window, I see cameras set up, ready to capture our every move as we board the train. A pit begins to form in my stomach. Garett seems to notice my unease because he holds my hand and squeezes it briefly before letting go.

Vergil is the first one to step off the auto, followed by Garett and then me. The cameras start moving, their heads following our pace. There are no noisy reporters, but I'm sure that on the television screens of the nation, someone is already commentating on our odds. That's what always happens. Last year, Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman commented on how weak our male tribute looked like. Of course he'd be weak. He lived in the poorest part of the district. I keep my head down and my gaze low. I would rather the hosts back in the Capitol notice nothing about me.

Vergil seems to disagree with my plan of action. He lets Garett go first, gesturing to the train with his hand, smiling wide for an audience we don't see. When I reach him, he puts an arm on my shoulder and walks beside me. I am about to shrug him off when he pulls me closer and whispers in my ear, "Look up. Don't hide your beauty, sweetcheeks. The sponsors would love you." The tone of his voice makes me do as he says. I look straight ahead, almost sticking up my nose in the air. As soon as the train doors close behind us, Vergil gives me a squeeze on my arm. "Well done, sweetcheeks."

How many times has he been saying that word the entire day? I don't think I can cope. "Thank you." I say stiffly.

He raises his eyebrows and lets me go. "Don't tell me I got a stuck-up beauty this year?"

I feel defensive all of a sudden. It must be because I am on edge enough as it is. "I'm not stuck-up."

He raises his eyebrows again. "That's not for you to judge, sweetcheeks." He turns to Garett. "Rest up. I'll call you when dinner is served." At the word dinner, my eyes settle on the long table set out in front of us. Laid out are various types of food, from soups to breads, to fruits and desserts. Bottles of drinks are also spread out. I see a small chocolate fountain like the one back at the candy store in the Plaza. I can feel my stomach grumbling. The porridge tesserae was not enough to fill my stomach.

"Did you hear me, sweetcheeks?" I turn around to see Vergil's disapproving face.

"No." I answer him truthfully. The way he sighs makes me irritated.

"Your quarters." He dusts off his suit and sighs again. "Never mind. I'll show you where it is." He starts walking, and Garett and I follow. We go through the door, to another part of the train where several doors are lined up. Another door, another part of the train. He points to the first door. "Garett, your quarters." Garett nods at me before going inside.

Two doors down, and Vergil points. "Yours, sweetcheeks." I roll my eyes at the nickname he's brandished me with. He could've just used my name. The door opens to the side, but before I could go in, he stops me with his hand. "It wouldn't kill for you to be attentive starting today, sweetcheeks. We'll be at the Capitol by tomorrow, and I want you to be on your best. Alright?"

I don't know what to say so I nod. "Wonderful. See you later." He walks away.

I roll my eyes at his back, gradually becoming smaller. I've always thought Vergil to be weird, especially for his fashion sense (who _isn't_ weird when it comes to the Capitol fashion sense?) and annoying because of his husky Capitol accent. Now, I'm thinking he's insufferable. I'm starting to not like him more and more.

The train starts to move, I make out from the window. I look out, seeing the factories and the bridge that connects to the tenements and the school and the Victor's Village. Slowly, the train picks up its pace until I am seeing nothing but the large river that separates the two parts of the district. It still feels surreal, being out of the district. And then it hits me again: the pain of having to leave everyone behind, the pain of knowing I'm being whisked off to certain death. I can't take the blurry scenery anymore. I stumble inside my quarters, another wonderful room in its own right.

It's smaller than Iris' room, but impressive nonetheless. On the same side of the door is a large television screen, similar to the one in the mayor's house. The windows are hidden behind lavish curtains that seem to be velvet, while the floor is carpeted. My eyes venture over to the bed, which is bigger than mine and my brothers' combined. It's so soft that when I sit on it, I sink for a while. I touch the bed sheets and feel its material under my fingertips. It's silk! Silk dresses are expensive and here, they're just used as sheets?! This is unbelievable! I stare at it in disbelief. _At least you get to taste all these luxuries before you die,_ a small voice in my head says. Well, thanks.

Behind another door is the bathroom, complete with a shower and a bathtub. At home, we use bars of soap and small vials of shampoo to cleanse ourselves, but here, you can have everything with just one press of a button. At least, that's what I discovered when I pressed two buttons. A few seconds later, I find myself staring at my own reflection in a large mirror, its frame weaved with intricate swirls and painted in sparkling gold. I imagine that selling this would be enough to feed the family for months. _If_ the gold is real. But then again, why wouldn't it? Citizens of District 8 know that the Capitol citizens like flaunting off their riches.

There is more to my room than a big bed and a bathroom. There is also a huge closet filled with so many beautiful dresses that I feel my eyes well up in tears. I have seen Iris' closet at her house, and that even doesn't compare to the wondrous contents of my temporary closet. There are dresses made of chiffon, nightgowns made of silk and trimmed with lace, more dresses studded with synthetic gems. Never in a million years could I own such clothes as these. I pull one out of the closet: a long-sleeved turquoise dress that reaches the floor. The beadwork on the neckline seems like the typical stuff some of the other girls do back in the factories, but it's beautiful nonetheless. I imagine myself wearing it to the reaping, and laughing because who would wear such a lavish dress to something as cruel at the reaping?

A small beep sounds in my room. I look up and down, side to side, trying to find where the sound came from, when it's suddenly replaced with Garett's voice. "Anya? Can I come in?"

I feel nervous all of a sudden. True, Garett and I have been going on as if nothing happened between us, but I always kept my distance from him when we're about to get alone. I fear pregnant silences, of the past being brought up back again, of the fear of me being the only one to remember the kiss being validated. He's Iris' boyfriend now, that's why I always made sure never to spend time alone with him and only him. I contemplate not to let him in.

But he's the last thing close to the district to remind me of it, the last piece of home I might have for the coming days. I may be working against him a week from now, but I don't care. He's my best friend before I got reaped; he's still my best friend when the time comes for me to die.

At least, that's what I want to believe in.

"Sure." I try to sound nonchalant. I wonder if it worked.

The door opens with a soft _whoosh_, and in comes Garett. He is still in his reaping clothes, his hair still formal-looking that it makes him appear more mature than he already is. I'm looking at him too much, I realize. I put the turquoise dress back in the closet and rummage through it more.

"I tried knocking. Didn't work." He says playfully. He takes a seat on the bed and almost sinks. His laughter fills my ears. "These are really soft!"

I laugh back at him. "Aren't they?" I close the closet doors and take a seat a few inches away from him. I wouldn't want him to think I'm pouncing on him or something. "A far cry from the beds back at home."

"Tell me about it." He nods. "Sometimes I sleep on the floor since it feels softer."

"I bet that sleeping on this feels like drowning. But in a totally, different way."

"I think I'd have trouble sleeping tonight."

I nod in agreement. I would probably be exhausted later in the evening, but maybe I won't be able to sleep. I would consider it a miracle if someone could sleep after getting reaped. "You've always been someone who can sleep easily, though." I say.

He chuckles. "That's true. You snore louder, though."

Color flushes in my cheeks. "Shut up, Garett!"

"You know, for some time, I thought only Nidle was allowed to hear those words."

"I thought so too myself. Turns out, you guys both need to shut up."

"Speaking of Nidle," he says in a playful voice I've heard him use on Iris a thousand time before, "about that kiss…" He lets the word hang out in the air.

_Kiss_? He hasn't forgotten it at all! My cheeks redden again, and I start to panic. What am I supposed to say so that this won't go out of hand? Stupid Garett! He has Iris already and he's still bringing up something I told myself I would never fuss over again?! And I have Nidle! Handsome, stupid Nidle whom I had no choice but to leave back home!

"Kiss?" I know I took too long to answer, but I'm taking my chances. I try to mask my panic with indifference, but the look on Garett's face says that I am not doing a good job at it. "What kiss?"

"You and Nidle." The words are the ones I didn't expect. I swallow hard, trying to understand its simplicity.

"Me and Nidle?" I choke out. I'm saved?

"The one yesterday? He ran to my house and started talking about it, like a ten year-old." Garett laughs. My mouth still hangs open, which he takes note of. "Did Nidle only have a hallucination or something? Because I'm starting to get worried…"

I'm such an idiot. I shake my head furiously. "No! I mean, no, he didn't hallucinate things. He _did_ kiss me."

"How was it?" He presses on.

I shrug. "I saw it coming, really. Uh, I mean I wasn't expecting it, but I was anticipating it, you know?" He shrugs too. "Uh, anyway… the kiss? It was sweet, something I never expected from him." At the memory of yesterday, I start smiling like an idiot. "It was like… he was experienced enough."

Garett raises his eyebrows. "I gave him tips, you know."

"Thank you, mighty love expert."

"You don't believe me?" He says with his faux-cockiness that always makes me smile. "He kept on bugging me about it after school. Even in the factory."

I can't help but break out into a grin. I never thought that Nidle would ask help from Garett; not with the way he liked keeping things to himself. But he did. I guess he did that to make himself look manlier and not to look like a fool in front of me. "Fine. If you say you're a love expert, then go on and be a love expert."

"Fine, you caught me." He raises his hands. "I'm no love expert. An Anya expert, though… now that's something else. I guess my tips worked on him since we've kissed before, you know."

The casualty of his words sends me into a frenzy. It feels like cold, cold water slapping my back. The hairs on my arms stand up, leaving my skin prickled. My mouth hangs open, words not at my disposal like they always are. _He remembers!_ I am thrown into an unsettling river of guilt, shame, longing, gratitude… every emotion imaginable. I want to thank him for bringing it up, that he assured me that the kiss wasn't something I imagined—but at the same time, I want to punch him for bringing it up. I'm doing fine without him mentioning it at all!

Garett snaps a finger in front of me. "Anya? Are you okay?"

The word leaves my lips along with my ability to breathe properly. "No."

He smiles sheepishly, like a child liking getting scolded. "Ah, I thought it would make you uncomfortable."

_You think?_ I let out a forced chuckle. "I thought you'd forgotten about it, honestly." I start rubbing my palms together. Great, now I'm distressed.

"I just never found any reason to talk about it in front of the others."

"Yeah." I bite my lips. "Because your girlfriend's my best friend." _Not too shabby, Anya Sowe._

"Yeah." He sounds resigned. "Thanks, I guess. For not telling her."

I want to tell him that I would never tell Iris about our kiss because it's something I want to keep for myself, that our kiss is one of the rare moments where I had something before Iris ever had it. But I don't. I will never tell them any of that. "Have you ever seen Iris cry over a boy?" I joke. "She's worse than a crying Lacey."

"Yeah." He sighs. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

"It's alright."

"For awhile there, I thought _you'd_ forgotten about it." The playfulness of his voice has disappeared, our conversation fast becoming into one that of best friends into something deeper, more intimate. Something only the two of us share. "Since we carried on like nothing happened at all."

How could I even forget a moment like that? A moment where I begin thinking too much, expecting too much, because a single kiss happened, only to let it go, but not really? Sometimes I ask myself the question everyday: why won't I just forget all about it? Since, if uncovered, it would only bring pain to my best friend? I fail every time. The memory is stronger than the will to forget.

Garett's dad was sick then, with a runny nose and a fever. Mom made me run to their house with a bowl of broth to give, since Garett had no knowledge of cooking, and our family was the only one close to them to care. The sky was darker than the usual soot-filled expanse, as if the clouds itself were made up of dust and soot. Thunder rumbled in the far distance, and the pavement was wet from the rain from earlier.

Mom and Dad were very worried about Killian, and so was I. It was the kind of fever that can be healed with broth, water, and lots of bed rest, but we weren't taking any chances. When I got to Garett's house, Killian was asleep, and Garett was watching over him like an obedient son. We rouse him from the bed to make him drink up some soup and water to ease his pain. As we changed the towel to cool his head, rain started to fall down in big drops that it made loud beats on the roof and on the windows. In my haste to get to Garett's, I had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Even if I had one, the wind outside was howling, too strong to be braved by a fifteen year-old girl. The thunder became louder and louder, until finally, lightning started to strike.

I've never liked lightning. Ever since I was a little girl, I've never liked how it would flash in a blinding light, followed by a whipping sound. I don't know how or why exactly I couldn't take lightning. Garett knew that, too, so he tried making me feel comfortable. We talked and talked, stopping only when a pang of lightning hits, and talking again. He was sharing a joke with me when the loudest strike of lightning happened.

I don't even know why I decided to bury myself in his chest. But I did, his arms around me in an instant. The lightning was so loud that I started to tremble and cry, thoughts of being electrocuted to death swimming in my mind. It didn't help that another flash of lightning occurred. I yelped for help, cried louder, sobbed until his lips silenced me. It surprised me, but his scent and lips tore me away from the sound of the lightning. I've always liked kissing, but I never thought I would like kissing Garett so much. He wasn't my first kiss, but maybe it was the first kiss that made me feel like nothing else mattered. We only stopped kissing when it was only the rain that remained.

I sigh. Everything is still too fresh, even after a year.

"It's not something that easy to forget." I confess. The direction of the conversation is feeling too heavy, like a thousand words left unsaid are flying in the air. I prop myself up, trying to make the atmosphere light again. I look at him jokingly. "Just don't try to kiss me again now!"

He laughs. "Tell me when I cross the line, okay?"

I laugh back at him. It's a moment created in bliss, something fleeting but still so real. I remember then and there why we are here and where we are headed to, and dread fills my chest. Am I really going into the Games with Garett? Can I stomach fighting him to go back home? Something tells me I need to worry about this, about where I stand, but I put it off. For the meantime, I'll enjoy this moment. I take one of his hands in mine and hold it tightly. His warmth reassures me that all of this is real, that he is real. That our talk about the kiss is real, that us going to the Capitol is real, too. "I wonder what they're doing right now. Back at home."

"Listening to the wardens shout, probably." Garett doesn't shrug off my touch. Instead, he responds to it. He intertwines his fingers with mine. I've always done this with Nidle, even when he hadn't told me his real feelings. Why should it feel any different when I do it with Garett?

"You smell like home." Tears fill my eyes.

"A piece of home." He says, sounding wistful. "I'm your piece of home, and you are mine."

"Sounds nice." And the tears fall. In this train bound to our deaths, I've found a piece of home that can never be replaced.


	5. Children Play the Game

Cecelia has been ignoring me since dinner.

I'm asking myself what I did wrong. Is it because I can't babysit her kids anymore, or ever again? Is it because I got angry at Vergil for calling me 'sweetcheeks' one too many times? I haven't done anything to warrant her anger. I ask Garett for his opinion, but all he can is, "Maybe she's tired?"

At this point, I'll accept any reason as long as it's not my fault.

Vergil invites us all to watch the recap of the reaping ceremonies across the nation. Garett and I sit on the carpeted floor, fingertips a few inches away from each other. Zander, Cecelia, and Vergil are on the couch, eyes already on the Panem seal twirling on the screen. If only Woof is here, we would probably be a nice picture for a family. But Woof is already asleep, and instead of posing for a photograph, we are waiting for the recap of the reaping. The dinner we had leaves me stuffed. My eyes are drooping, and it takes my all to fight against it. I don't even notice Cecelia going out of the room until she comes back. She settles down two glasses in front of me and Garett without looking at me. I don't want to think more about it, so I focus on the drink instead: it's fizzy. Vergil calls it a carbonated drink. It scratches at the throat as I drink it, leaving a sweet taste. A few minutes later, it feels as if I've been energized.

While waiting for the recap to begin, Vergil keeps on telling stories fresh from the Capitol. Someone named Crane has filled a missing gamekeeper's spot, and is expected to be one of the contenders for being Head Gamemaker in the years to come. One of the children of a high-paying sponsor pissed of a designer by ripping a gown he made to shreds. One of the victors from District 1 has caught Barnabas' affection, whoever the fuck Barnabas is.

The only thing that doesn't make me snap at Vergil and his endless stories is his voice. The stories are all boring, small gossip when told to us simple folk of the districts, but they don't sound as boring because of Vergil's stupid husky voice.

And then it begins: Panem's anthem starts playing loudly, and as the seal slowly disappears, Caesar Flickerman's show tune starts to take over. The screen turns black and lights up again, this time with Caesar in place, his infamous grin plastered on his face. I can hear Vergil snort from where he is seated.

"Good evening, citizens of Panem!" Caesar greets. "Today marks the beginning of the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games!" The live audience cheers. It takes a few seconds for the applause to die down. "Tributes all over the nation have been reaped. Who is excited to see them tomorrow?"

I'm not, but he's not asking me. The crowd cheers once more.

"You and I share the same sentiments." He laughs. "This year's crop is a wonderful one, indeed. Now, let us recount this year's tributes!" The screen fades to black again. A few seconds pass by, and the number 1 appears on screen. I feel my stomach drop a few feet.

The reaping ceremony from District 1 starts to play. As usual, volunteers take the place of those who got their names picked. This year's volunteers for the district of luxury are a lean and well-sculpted boy and girl who are of the same height. They could easily be mistaken for siblings if not for the girl's hair color and their different last names. Their reaping ceremony is over just like that. No muss, no fuss.

The same goes with districts 2 and 4. The dusky girl from District 2 actually makes me a little bit frightened, all with the determined look in her eyes as she volunteers for a twelve year-old kid and her posture. She looks like she's been groomed to do this all her life. Of course they have been. It's no secret how Districts 1, 2, and 4 take the Games seriously. They probably have secret schools where would-be tributes train.

There are three twelve year-olds in the roster this year. Watching them get reaped makes me feel pained, because all of them are crying when they are presented in front of the stage. _They're only twelve, _I think as I watch the small boy from District 11 wipe tears from his face. _They could have so much more than this._

The program ends with Caesar bidding his audience a good night, and a reminder to keep watching tomorrow, like they have another choice. It's Zander who turns off the screen and says, "Any thoughts on the competition?"

Competition. The word hangs in the air as if Zander has cursed. He's right. This _is_ a competition. A competition where the victor gets to go home. I hate myself for forgetting easily where I am and why I'm here in the first place.

"The pair from District One," Garett begins, "looks intimidating."

Cecelia nods. "Nothing less from Cashmere and Gloss overseeing their training."

"Speaking of Gloss," Vergil interjects, "Freud says—"

"Anya?" Zander nods towards me. His acknowledgement of my presence somehow thrills me.

"The girl from Two looks strong." I say. "So does her partner."

"Alright. One and Two are potential threats." Zander says. "Any other observation?"

"There are a lot of twelve year-olds this year." I tell him.

Vergil rolls his eyes. "What an astute observation, sweetcheeks."

I want to tell him to shut up, but I bite back my tongue. I won't let him get the best of me.

"A lot of them look determined to win." Garett says. That's true. Almost all of the tributes who cried were those under the age of thirteen.

"Trust me when I say that the Games start the moment the escort reads out your name." Zander says. "You have to start pulling out all the tricks you can use."

"But still leave for some to use at the last moment." Cecelia says.

The sudden change of pace in our conversation is unsettling. We were having a nice dinner earlier, and now we're talking about tricks up our sleeves. Examining the other tributes, determining their possible weaknesses. Nothing feels more like the Hunger Games than this. I unconsciously start rubbing my hands together again, which Garett notices.

"You okay?" He whispers to me. I nod back, although no, I'm not really okay.

Zander gives us a few tips more when Vergil announces that we should rest. "I wouldn't want Garett and sweetcheeks here looking like corpses tomorrow." He laughs, and exits the room. Zander goes out next, and Garett.

And the perfect opportunity is here! Cecelia and I are the only ones left in the room. Being left alone with her, I remember feeling betrayed by her words yesterday, but it's not Ces' fault Vergil got my name. "Ces?"

Her shoulders perk up, but she doesn't even turn around to look at me. "Yes?"

The absolute coldness in her voice leaves me speechless. What can I say to her now? I ruffle through my mind for conversation ideas, but there are none. "I'm… I'm sorry I can't babysit the kids."

It takes a few seconds before she shrugs. "It's okay," she says, and starts walking towards the door. "Good night, Anya."

That's all she has to say? 'It's okay' and 'good night'? No words of encouragement, or an apology for promising me something that wasn't real? Or even just the assurance that she'll keep me alive? I don't want to expect much from Cecelia, but leaving me with nothing is much worse than I imagined. She's out the door now, and I am frozen in place. Am I reading into this too much? But I know Cecelia! She'd at least give me a hug or a kiss on the forehead!

I follow her out. "Ces?" I call her. She doesn't look back. "Ces!"

She looks back at me this time. Her eyes are calculating yet reserved, as if she and I haven't been friends for years now. "I'm tired." She says in a cold and flat voice. "I'd like to rest, please." Without even waiting for me to answer, she walks on and turns to her room. I am frozen in place, trying to comprehend what just happened.

But I am bad at understanding. Instead, I start to dash to my room before the tears could even fall. Once I am safe in bed, I let it all go. I whimper, I sob, I cry. Anything to get the rage and frustration out of my system. Have I been left emotionally unstable because I got reaped?

I wish I'm back at home, in my own bed, listening to Mom and Dad talking softly in the kitchen. I wish I could see Nidle who accepts my emotional outbursts. I wish I never got reaped in the first place. I wish that the Hunger Games never existed. I bury my face in my pillow. The last thing I want is for Ces to hate me for no good reason at all. I stop crying when I get tired and when I remember I have to look my best tomorrow. Sponsors wouldn't want to give their money to a girl with puffy eyes.

Breakfast is excruciating. I try not to look at Cecelia, or any direction she is in. It's hard to enjoy the food when I'm too busy avoiding Cecelia. The only presence I enjoy is Garett's. When all of us are done with eating, I go back to my room and sulk. I don't allow myself to cry though. I should put my tears to good use.

I'm busy looking at the ceiling when Zander comes in. He has a wine glass in his hand, and he is looking smug. I must've done something wrong to warrant his attention. I sit up and hug my knees. Bury my face in them so he would take just the right amount of pity on me before going on a full-blown lecture. "I'm not feeling good."

His tone is unrelenting. There was even no need to make him pity me. The man seems heartless enough. "Suck it up." He says. "We're nearing the Capitol."

I straighten my posture. "Is that why you're here?"

"Yeah," he settles his now empty glass on the table and sits down on the couch. As he bends to rub his legs, I get a peek of his nape. For some unknown reason, I feel my cheeks grow hot. I tear away my gaze before he could even see me. "And to tell you that Ces and I have decided who gets who."

"Am I with Ces?"

"No, you're with me."

"Oh." It's a relief that Ces is not my mentor because she's clearly avoiding me since yesterday, but I am worried about Zander mentoring me. I guess my mixed emotions show because he clears his throat.

"Don't worry. I won't let you die out there."

"Did you choose me first?" I want to know just how much I am willing to trust him. I don't know much about him, and he doesn't know much about me. He just told me he won't let me die in the arena, but what's to say that he's not lying? Cecelia lied when she told me I wasn't going to get reaped.

"I told Cecelia not to take you."

His answer leaves me confused. So Cecelia wanted to mentor me, at the very least? I look again at Zander: clean-shaven, snug in his sweater but still looking classy. Far from the Zander I've seen a few times in Ces' house: bearded, silent, sloppy. He's the latest Victor our district has. He hasn't brought back a single kid since then. Am I safe in this man's hands? "Why?" I ask him, trying to sound demanding. I think I just sound scared.

"I've a better chance with you." He tells me.

"Did she put up a fight to mentor me?"

"I won't tell you that."

"Why?"

He presses his fingers to his temples. "Because."

"Fine."

"Now be a good tribute and listen to my advice." When we arrive at the Capitol, I should do my best to feel at ease. Smile, wave, acknowledge the crowd: anything to make them feel like I enjoy the whole experience of the games. I ask Zander why he chose that route for me, but he only shrugs again and tells me to trust him. As soon as the parade finishes and the training starts, that's when we're to make a solid strategy.

"And I want to talk about Garett." He says after he finishes giving me advice.

I tilt my head to the side, trying to look innocent. To what degree does he know? "What about Garett?"

"What's your relationship with him?"

I've taught myself so many times to answer that question. "We're best friends. Part of the same circle back at home."

"Sound a whole lot rehearsed." He smiles the kind of smile that leaves you guilty. The kind of smile that says, _"There's something you're not telling me but I know that 'something' more than you will ever know that said 'something.'"_

I clear my throat. I bite my tongue back before I could say, 'Stupid Zander.' That's not what a good tribute does to her mentor, even if he seems like an ass. "I don't have the luxury to rehearse such things."

He raises his eyebrows and smiles again. He seems to be enjoying our banter. A couple of wisecracks, what joy. "You seem like a good liar, sweetcheeks."

"You seem like someone who has a clouded sense of judgment." I shrug. "I'm as honest as anyone could be."

"Sweetcheeks," he laughs, "you're on the right track." He downs the serving of wine in his glass in one gulp. A droplet of wine runs down his chin, disappearing split seconds later among his forming stubble. He twirls the wine glass in his hands so effortlessly, just like how he twirled his prized knife before he killed the girl from District Four during his Games. "No one's honest in this kind of world."

"I think someone is too bitter inside this room."

His eyes widen in amusement, a small smile forming on his lips. He actually looks like a person who likes to have fun, far from the stoic Zander who Cecelia cooks for when she has spare time. "You don't come out of the Games happy, sweetcheeks." He takes a second too long to look at my dumb-founded face before actually chuckling. "Too early for that golden advice, huh?"

"Are you drunk, Zander?" I ask. I've seen a couple of drunk people before, though I've never had experience talking to one, or even interacting with one. The drunks I usually hear or see slur when speaking, sway when walking, cry suddenly because of nothing. Zander is in total control of himself, chuckling and speaking as a normal person would.

"Go to sleep, sweetcheeks." He stands up and heads for the door. "We have a long day ahead of us."

"One condition." I blurt out. He stops halfway out of the door, looking back at me.

He raises his eyebrows as if to ask, _"What?"_

"I'll listen and take your advice," I say slowly, "if you stop calling me sweetcheeks."

He chuckles again, the kind of chuckle that belittles someone. It actually makes me feel embarrassed and hurt for a moment. "You'll follow my advice even if I keep calling you sweetcheeks." The door closes as soon as he steps out of my room, the sound of his chuckle hanging heavily in the air.

That night, I dream of Ceasar Flickerman, introducing me to the Capitol crowd as 'Sweetcheeks.' The crowd cheers, but as soon as I take my place on the stage, the lights flicker continuously. Even through the flickering lights, I could see that the faces of the crowd were melting, all creating a puddle of assorted colors around my feet.

I wake up groggy, feeling unrefreshed and a little bit on the edge. Trees whirl by so fast they are almost a blur. Like a green whip coming down too fast for the naked eye to catch up on.

I wash my face and smoothen my dress before coming out of the room. The doors open towards the dining cab, where everything is silent, except for the soft whirring of the train. If I close my eyes, it would actually sound like I was back home, although the purring of the factories is louder. I tiptoe my way to the couches and sit there. I have a feeling that if I touch the food while I am all alone, something bad would happen.

And that is when the doors open again, and Garett comes in.

I see him instantly; he does, too. Even if I felt groggy, I can feel my lips forming a smile just for him. He walks towards me, a sleepy smile on his face. He sits on the same couch, across from me, and whispers, "Good morning."

His voice is so tender that it makes me blush. I bow my head immediately, careful not to show him how red my face is. Why is he doing this? Or am I just too conscious because I'm alone with him? But back in District 8 I was fine being alone with him! Maybe it has something to do with the talk we had yesterday…

I feel warmth on my head. He is ruffling my hair with his hand. "Anya?" He says in that still tender voice. I've heard that somewhere before. I've heard him use that tone before.

_Think._ "Hmm?" I take a lock of my hair and play with it to look busy.

"Are you okay?" His hand stops shuffling my hair, though his warmth remains there.

_THINK._ "Mhmm."

I feel the warmth disappear, but then fingertips trace my cheek. I almost jump back at the gesture if it were not for his tender voice. "You sure?"

Then it dawns on me. I've heard that tone before. Just like that day, when the thunder and lightning were at its; loudest, the day the rain would not stop beating the windows, and lips hungry for more. I smile wistfully. Lift my head and try to act normally. "Let's eat."

The meal awakens the senses. To save time for questions, Vergil has asked the servants to write small cards beside every meal. It's an ingenious idea, but somehow, it makes me feel dumb. Maybe the man just wants to save his breath for other things rather than answer some poor kids' questions about food? I would never know since I wouldn't like to ask.

We are halfway into breakfast when Zander emerges from the other cab, looking like hell. His hair is a mess, his clothes unruly and creased. There are noticeable dark circles under his eyes: he may have not look drunk last night, but now his façade screams of a drunken stupor.

And I am supposed to entrust my life in this man's hands.

"I think someone had one to many bottles last night," Vergil greets him.

Zander answers with a mock salute. "All in the spirit of the Games."

Breakfast carries on. Vergil and Cecelia talk of what to expect in the Games, stuff like who has pledged the most funds, who was returning to mentor, and who was in charge of coming up with the arena this year. I hear several names, some familiar, some not.

"I heard that District One is no longer sending in Alyce." Vergil dumps a spoonful of sugar on his coffee.

"Alyce has been coming in for years. It's past time that she was given time off." Cecelia simply says.

"They favor the boy now that they have young blood." Vergil answers. "I heard Midas tell the others that it's time Alyce grow old."

I cannot help but think: the boy? They must mean the victor from the previous Hunger Games, Osmium. He was the darling of District 1 last year, a boy of eighteen who had toned muscles but was quick on his feet. He won his Games in ten days. One of the things I could remember from his Games was how he smiled at the cameras when he slit the throat of his last opponent.

Garett takes part in their conversation. "Mentors can choose not to go?"

Vergil nods in his direction. "Or their co-victors can choose for them not to go."

"Then why bring Woof?" Garetts says. It seems deplorable, what he said, but I know he was concerned with Woof's age. The victor of the 23rd Hunger Games was already senile: at home, he spent more time with himself than the outside world. "He's safer back in the district."

"Woof is safer with me and Zarven." Cecelia says, with a quietness in her voice that makes me know not to press on further. The thought of these three people—Cecelia, Zarven, and Woof—banding together, being each other's' support, makes me want to cry.

After breakfast, there is nothing else to do. Vergil has gone back to his quarters, undoubtedly trying to make himself look good once the train rolls into the Capitol (as if he can make himself look good); Zarven and Cecelia have gone off to their cab, probably going to talk about the strategy for the Games. Garett and I are left behind. I watch the servants intently remove and clean the set-up of the table, the carts of food are rolled away into another cab.

"How far do you think we are still?" I ask Garett. We have taken solace in the long velvet couch. He is sitting upright while I am reclining. The body of water outside is blue and deep, unlike the river back at home that always seemed so bleak and unruly.

"Probably an hour or less?" My eyes shift back to look at him, and I see nothing but a pair of green eyes, looking out of the window, gazing into a far-away landscape.

My stomach sinks. By the look on his face, I know he is thinking about Iris. It hasn't been too long since they have gotten together: of course he'd miss her. _Of course_ he'd think about her, just as I thought of Nidle every time I feel the train shake.

"I'm sure she misses you." I blurt out. _Stupid mouth._

"Huh?" He answers absent-mindedly. He looks over at me, curiosity marked on his face. "What?"

"I'm sure Iris misses you." I have no choice but to continue on. "You don't have to worry about her, you know."

Garett chuckles. "I believe I know Iris as much as you do, Anya, Probably a little bit better, too."

I don't know why but his answer makes me blush. I do nothing but shrug back in return.

"I was just thinking, how she is doing without me." He pauses for a bit before the words follow. "How she would do without me."

The sinking pit in my stomach deepens. I inhale sharply, feeling as if I am about to take a plunge in a cold, desolate river, and never to come back to the surface again. I feel sad, I feel angry, but mostly I feel scared. Scared for me, scared for this boy, scared for every one we left behind. Scared for everyone we _will be leaving_ behind. "Don't say that." My voice is barely a whisper. I'm trying to deny things, but part of me still knows better. Garett's right. We may never come home.

Trees are replaced by towering mountains. Our shadows dance on the floor, our conversation now a ghost of the past. I hear shuffling beside me and see Garett moving closer. I bring my knees closer to my chest, and the boy with green eyes presses on closer. He rests his head on the crevice between my knees. He smells like soap and mint. He closes his eyes and smiles a small smile.

He looks like a child, and it breaks my heart.

"Garret—" I begin.

"Let's stay like this." He simply says, and I do not have the resolve to do otherwise.

We stay like that until Vergil comes. Garett sits upright, and I settle my feet on the ground, feeling pins and needles slowly take over.

"Look alive, tributes," Vergil claps, "we're almost there."

As if on cue, the train enters a dark tunnel. My hand finds Garett's, and I squeeze it to be affirmed that I am not alone. Vergil says something about looking presentable, waving and smiling. A few minutes pass and we emerge out of the tunnel, the sudden flood of light from the outside makes me squint.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. When it does, the sight leaves me in awe. Buildings higher than the tenements back at home rise to the sky, their windows glittering under the sun. It's an endless expanse of metal and glass, like a competition to build the highest building is currently being held. Vergil points at several buildings, naming them, but there's not much difference in the way that they look. As we enter another tunnel, Garett leans in to whisper to me.

"Ready?"

_No._ I tell him exactly how I feel. "No."

He grins. "Me too."

The mentors emerge from the other cab: Cecelia is dressed in a yellow dress, her hair tied up in a ponytail. Woof has a blazer on, with a sleepy look on his face, while Zander puts a white stick between his lips and runs a hand through his hair.

I look out the window and see people running to us: people dressed in a wide array of colors, some wearing headpieces that are bigger than their faces. I remember the clothes we make back in the district, and for a moment, I could hear the machines purring in my ears.

They are all excited, thrilled for us to be there. They wave, they smile: their lips are moving, but I am unable to read the words. Feelings swell in my mind: excitement over these people being excited to see me; fear because I might fail; disgust, because I find myself being pulled by their waving hands, enchanted by their synthetic grins.

But I have begun playing the game, and I am pretending to enjoy it to survive.


	6. She's the Dead Girl Walking

On some day back in the district, I had the duty to fit mannequins in clothes that were to be sold in the Capitol, so that photographs could be taken for interested buyers to look at. We had an allotted time for the mannequins to be dressed and fixed (to maximize work time, of course), but sometimes I felt like I have to take a longer time to fuss over them, to make sure that everything is its perfect place, that there are no creases on the dress and whatnot.

Right now, I feel like a mannequin. But instead of being fitted with clothes, I am being washed clean, hosed down, plucked like a goose, and scrubbed like a dirty floor. Why are they scrubbing at me like this? I've just taken a bath in the train, too! Am I that dirty, or are the Capitol people just clean freaks?

"Her hair color is really pretty." A woman dyed in pink with a shrill voice says. "It reminds me a bit of rust." Her voice bounces off of the walls in my room at the Remake Center. As soon as we stepped off the train, vehicles came to pick us up to drop us here just as easily.

"It's auburn, Moira. Auburn." Another woman supplies the correct term. She is a stout lady, her arms crusted with swirls of gold tattoos. "Make sure it shines. Juliana will be pleased with it, I'm sure."

"Yeah, she's been into the _organic_ stuff lately, hasn't she?" A voice too sweet enough to be a man's, but still belongs to a man nonetheless, says.

"I'm sure she's going to change her mind sooner or later." Moira says.

I have been given over to gossipers whose Capitol accent fills my ears. From time to time, they ask me small questions-things such as my favorite color, how the weather is in District 8-until an answer of mine sets them off and they begin gossiping again. By the time they are doing some final touches on me, I have some knowledge on my stylist, Juliana: she's been into _organic_ stuff lately, meaning that she looked plain compared to the 'normal-looking' Capitol citizens; her lover recently gave her a diamond necklace, straight from the hands of District 1; and that next year, she might get promoted to District 4. By the time they are completely done with me, I have fallen asleep. I wake up when I feel a hand on my forehead and a voice beckoning me to open my eyes. I sit up, surprised, almost calling out Garett's name, when I see a woman in front of me, a soft smile on her lips.

"Hello. I'm Juliana." She extends her hand for a shake, and I accept, with a hint of doubt. I thought that she was going to look natural. The only natural-looking about Juliana is her skin, and how tan it is. Other than that, she has the same Capitol vibe to her: shockingly pink hair that cascades down her back, long eyelashes that are accentuated by glitter, a dress littered with feathers and sequins that somehow make it look like a whole factory of those assortments blew up near her.

If this is what natural-looking looks like to the whole lot of them, then I do not want to see what the unnatural looks like.

"You look pretty, my dear," she says, taking a lock of my hair in her hands. I resist the urge to swat her hands away. "But not fabulous. And my job is to _make_ you fabulous." She's been the stylist for 8 for four years, I've heard someone from the assistants say, and I silently give thanks that I am from 8 and not from 7, who are always and probably will be dressed as trees for forever. I've seen some of the outfits from the past years, and I must say that they're pretty. That alone can attest to the fact that Juliana is not going to screw this over for me.

"You must be exhausted from that long train ride." Her Capitol accent, I take note, is different than Vergil's. It's fuller, better-rounded. "Come, eat with me."

Do the citizens of the Capitol have food prepared at every time of the day? Of course they would: they have the ability, or rather, the resources to have food prepared at their own leisure. They'd go all out on us as well: we're players in the Games now, and the players need to be well-fed, well-groomed, well-treated, before they are brought to the slaughterhouse.

But I don't complain, being two-faced as I am. Instead, I eat. I think of the people back at home, but I eat. Cliff would like this chocolate cake; Mom would want to know the recipe for the lamb chops smothered in peanut sauce, if we had enough money to buy the ingredients. Bronn wasn't a fan of the few vegetables Cecelia gave me back home, but he would probably take a bite or two out of the steamed vegetables swimming in butter.

Juliana does small talk well. She asks me about myself, about the factories back home. She tells me stories of the designs she has sent over to the district to be manufactured. "I have never been to District Eight." She tells me. She doesn't sound condescending, but damn if I know she's lying or not. I bet she wouldn't even want to be in 8, considering the lifestyle there. Even the mayor doesn't have most of what they have here in the Capitol.

"I doubt you'll like it there." I reply, and immediately drink from my cup of orange juice.

She just laughs. "Come on. Let's get you dressed."

And the thought of being dolled up makes me a little bit excited. I trail after her, faint excitement beating in my chest. When she shows me the costume I am about to wear, I cannot help but remember Iris and her red dress. This costume is so much more beautiful than anything Iris could ever have. It's a dress with so many layers, each layer a different kind of cloth and pattern that still fit in with each other. It has a wide array of colors, from a rich shade of green to a luscious shade of violet, to a proud blue and a flaming red. The colors remind me of the cloths back at the factories in 8. It's a wonder that out of our hardships come something so wonderfully beautiful. Juliana notices my silence and she lightly squeezes my shoulders. "Change into the dress first. We'll put make-up on you and fix your hair afterwards."

The dress fits me like a dream, which I do not understand, since I have never been measured. She first makes me wear the white base of the costume, which Juliana says is a maillot. It doesn't even cover my thighs or my legs, and there are no sleeves or a collar to mask my upper body. It's like a corset, in the sense that it pushes up my breasts. I gulp. I'm not used to showing so much skin. Back at home, I was always dressed in clothes that had sleeves, even if the weather became too hot. I try to give it small attention, though, since a costume _is_ a costume, and this will help me win hearts, pockets that will help me survive.

The first layer comes in, and it is a sheer, purple dress that gives a little bit of covering to my legs. It's _sheer_, though, so I don't feel too covered-up. The next layer comes, which is the blue one, and then the green, and then the red. The last one is a chest piece the color of gold, which wraps itself around me like a snake around its prey, while one side hooks my breast and the other one is just for support. There are no sleeves, but Juliana wraps my arms in the red cloth from before in crisscross patterns, creating makeshift sleeves that still look pretty. I slip my feet into short pink heels, and when she lets me look in the mirror, it feels as if someone foreign is staring back at me. I'm like a sophisticated rainbow brought to life, my dress creating a puddle of colors around me. I forget the bareness of it all.

"It's wonderful." I say, awestruck.

"No," Juliana giggles, "it's _fabulous_."

The next few hours go by like a blur. The gossipers are called back in to fix my hair and to put make-up on my face. When they entered the room, they were surprised by the new color of Juliana's hair, but they were even more surprised at my transformation, courtesy of the dress.

"You look absolutely wonderful," the stout woman says breathlessly. The man with the sweet voice claps his hands, while Moira says one word: "Fabulous."

"Just imagine the sponsors you can get!" Juliana gushes, before she lets the gossipers work their 'magic' on me. The stout woman, named Cardea, is in charge of my hair: it is brushed, then curled, and fluffed until it forms like a full cloud on my head. A gold headband keeps it from falling off. Moira starts applying make-up on me. From what I get, my eyes are to be smoky, my lips bloody red like I had just eaten 'a raw cow.' The man, whose name is Helio, paints my nails, although I am not too sure if someone would be close enough to be concerned with my nail polish. They speak in a language I don't fully understand: lip gloss, eye shadow, hairspray, nail polish remover. But by the time they are done with me, I have discovered the difference between eyeliner and mascara.

When all has been said and done, Juliana takes me by the hand and we head to the elevator. Zander is there, leaning on the wall, dressed in a simple suit tailored to fit every nook and cranny of his built. On the train ride to here, he looked sloppy, but that's a different story now: he looks stylish, as if he hasn't kept himself to his own in 8. He raises his eyebrows when he sees me, and smiles at Juliana. If I wasn't too preoccupied with the butterflies in my stomach, I'd point at Zander's smiling face and laugh at him.

"Well done, Jules." He puts a hand on Juliana's shoulder once he has reached us.

I can see Juliana blushing from the side of my eyes. "It was nothing." It's obvious that she's trying not to let Zander's words get to her head, and she's failing at trying to hide it.

He nods towards me. "You look nice." He says, though his voice doesn't really measure up to his statement.

"She's not _nice_," Juliana shakes her head, "she's—"

"Fabulous." I say, and the elevator doors open. In a matter of seconds, we are brought down to the area where the chariots await.

The night is warm with the loud voices of people from afar, and the buzzing of tributes, stylists, and mentors. Tributes have gathered around their respective chariots, and I couldn't resist sneaking a peek at some. The tributes from 1 are dressed in gold and silver, while the ones from 4 have scales like fishes. District 7 is trees again, much to their chagrin, probably. I am trying to determine what the tributes from 6 are when Garett appears with his stylist and Cecelia and Woof beside him. He is dressed in a sleeveless suit that shows off his rather muscular arms. At different angles, the colors and patterns of his suit change. I try to remember a term that Cecelia once told me about, but I can't recall it.

"You look great." He smiles as soon he is within my hearing range.

"You don't look bad yourself." I say back, at the same time a buzzer rings.

"Ooh, time to board!" Juliana says. Garett holds out his hand to help me up the chariot, the eighth in line, and I hoist myself up. He follows suit, and the chariot wobbles a bit. Cecelia reaches up to tap Garett on the waist, and then me. "Good luck." Woof says with a small smile. I think it's the first time I've heard him speak, and the first time I've felt his presence. Garett thanks him.

"You can wave if you like." Cecelia tips us off. "The audience loves it when you give them recognition."

I sneak a glance at Zander, possibly for some last tips. He just draws a smile on his lips, and I need no more words. Another buzzer sounds of, and when I look forward, the first chariot is starting to exit, and the roaring of the crowd grows louder, the blaring of the music a bit quiet compared to their cheering.

"Be fabulous!" Juliana shouts as they are ushered to the sides where they can't be trampled by the horses.

All of a sudden, just as the chariot of District 5 begins to exit, I feel queasy. There are butterflies in my stomach, and for the briefest moment, I feel like the buttered mashed potatoes are going to go back up. Garett notices my discomfort, like he always does, and asks if I am okay.

"Yeah, just the mashed potatoes." I mutter. Then our chariot takes off.

For a moment I thought I was going to lose my footing, so I hold onto the chariot for dear life. It would do no good to humiliate myself. I tense up: my shoulders go rigid, my lips form a tight smile, and my hands remain frozen in place. Our chariot emerges out of the roof, and for the first time in two days, I see the open night sky above, the stars enhanced by the lights of the towering buildings of the Capitol. On the sides are hundreds and hundreds of people, cheering, waving, clamoring to get a glimpse of us. It's thrilling to have people cheer for you like that, to have people know that you exist.

What's not thrilling is that in that moment, I exist for their entertainment.

I turn to Garett for consolation, but he's busy waving and smiling, aiming to please the people who will keep us alive in the days to come. _A job,_ I think, _this is nothing but a job._ So I smile again and wave, drowning out the fear by trying to appear like I am enjoying this kind of life, the life I will never have back at home. I am here, wearing a dress even Iris could never wear in her entire life. People are shouting my name, cheering for me as I blow kisses in their direction. The feeling rushes over me, drowning out my doubts like the humming of the machines drowning out the idle chatter of the workers back in the factories in 8.

_District Eight!_ Mom and Dad are watching back home! So are Cliff, and Bron, and Nidle! I imagine their voices cheering me on, telling me how wonderful I look, and somehow, my smile is no longer forced though my cheeks start hurting. I wave enthusiastically to the crowd, relishing in their delight, and for a brief, beautiful moment, I could hear Nidle whispering in my ear how stupidly beautiful I am.

The chariots enter the City Circle, and when the chariot of District 12 rolls and settles in like the rest, the cheering grows so loud I can feel the ground trembling. Names are shouted from the right and from the left, each citizen wanting their tribute to not go unnoticed. I am breathless from the rush of it all. I turn to Garett, and when our eyes meet, we break out in smiles. He takes my hand in his, and then I hear my heart beating in my ears.

"That was something." He says. I have no words to describe it. I just nod, and then the music stops.

A man emerges from the balcony suspended high above, with powder-white hair and a beard of the same color. He is wearing a black suit, and attached on the lapel is white rose. It's President Snow.

He stretches out his arms as if to embrace everyone in the City Circle. I don't know if he is capable of such an emotion. "Tributes," his voice rings throughout the now-quiet area. "This is a glorious day indeed. Let us all welcome the twenty-four tributes who have wonderfully graced the Capitol. Welcome, tributes, to the Sixty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games."

The crowd cheers again. So the Games truly begin, now that the president has declared it. Slowly, the smile on my face turns into a frown. Death is coming for us in a week. My grip on Garett's hand tightens.

"May the odds," and his voice drips with menace and thirst for something I don't want to know, "be ever in your favor."

Nidle would probably say something along the lines of, "Not that they've been for a long time." The crisp quality of his voice in my head makes me ache for home again. I wonder, would he be like Garett, if he was the one reaped? Would he be smiling and waving, or would he be scowling, muttering curses underneath his breath? What is he even thinking of me right now? But all I can feel is Garett's hand in mine, and how strong his grip is. My piece of home I'm not letting go anytime sooner.

The anthem of Panem starts to play, and the cheering of the people restart again. The chariots make one final round in the City Circle before finally going back in. Once the gates close, the cheering of the people get muffled. My ears have a hard time adjusting to the newfound quiet. Garett jumps off of the chariot, and reaches his hands out to me. I can feel my palms sweating, and my knees shaking. I jump towards Garett, and he catches me in his arms effortlessly.

"You two were _fabulous!_" Juliana screeches once she reaches us. "Oh, how marvelous!"

The three mentors trail behind her. Woof is grinning, like a proud father. Zander and Cecelia have smiles on their faces, though not as big as Woof's. "You did well." Cecelia says, and gives me and Garett a pat on the shoulder.

Zander nods in my direction. "Nice job out there, sweetcheeks."

"Thanks." I sound so breathless.

They begin talking just as my eyes begin to wander. I see the tributes from District 1, both of them scowling in their bejeweled crowns. The trees from 7 are looking very nervous. The girl from District 6 is biting on her nails, while the twelve-year old from District 5 looks like she's about to cry again.

"Anya!" Garett calls out, and when I see him, he is already hallway to the elevators with everyone. I was so consumed in observing the other tributes that I didn't notice them leaving.

"Coming!" I shout back, and start walking toward them. But I feel a pull from behind me, stopping me dead in my tracks. I don't have to turn around to know that someone has stepped on the hem of my rainbow dress: there is a loud _riiiiiiiip!_, followed by Juliana's very audible gasp.

I instinctively pull my dress away and when I look up, the girl from 2 is looking at me, her eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed. There is a piece of cloth under her sharp red shoe.

"Watch where you're going, Eight." She spits out in disgust and walks away.

I can feel blood rushing to my cheeks. I bite my lower lip to avoid screaming at the girl. _She stepped on my dress!_ I want to shout, but I stop myself. I'm not going to make a scene.

But she stepped on my dress! And acted all high and mighty, as if I was the one who wasn't looking where she's going! _I_ should be the one who is supposed to be acting like that!

I raise my head high and turn back to the direction of the elevators. When I reach Garett and the others, it feels like I've walked a thousand steps instead of twenty.

"What a bitch," I mutter under my breath when I reach Garett.

"She ruined my _fabulous_ dress!" Juliana screeches when she saw the hole.

Zander leans in to whisper in my ear. "Seems like we have to watch out for District Two." He chuckles. The sound of it leaves a chill down my spine. Garett seems to notice my distress because he wraps an arm around me. His lips move—he's saying something—but I am too preoccupied in my thoughts. Someone presses the number 8, and the elevator shoots up.

I just made an enemy.

She comes from one of the most powerful districts, who dominate at the Hunger Games.

I entered the parade a tribute, and I emerge from it a dead girl walking.


	7. No Strategy

"With all that's happening, how do we think we're going to make friends in this place?" I, ever the pessimist, mutter as Garett and I get into the elevator. He presses the 'down' button, and the doors close. I lean on the wall to steady myself. All the talk about strategies during breakfast is making me queasy. Imagine, talking about survival while trying to eat a decent meal.

Who am I to complain, though? They're only trying to keep us alive.

Garett stands beside me, his arm pressing against my shoulder. "Technically, Zander was right." He says, sounding like the snotty teacher back in 8. "You don't need to be friends in order to be allies."

I snort, remembering Zander's face when the words escaped his lips. "He said that because he doesn't have any friends."

The boy beside me shrugs. "He may have said that because he's a Victor."

"Shut up, Garett." The bell dings, and the elevator doors open. Compared to the décor in our floor, the hallway going to the gymnasium was bare. Metal walls that had wall lamps, a red carpeted floor: that's it. Nothing to make a person feel like they're walking to their impending doom like bare walls.

We walk towards the huge door (metal, of course). The conversation from breakfast plays in my head.

"You two would make perfect allies." Vergil had said, shooing away a servant after being given a cup of something purple. "You're friends, after all."

Zander laughed as if Vergil had said something stupid. "And make it harder for these kids? You have to remember that only one comes out of the arena. By putting them together, you make their odds winning less."

"Not unless somebody else kills the other first." Vergil said. There was a knife on the table, a dull one. At that time, I wondered if stabbing Vergil with it would make him scream.

"The both of you have valid points," Cecelia had been busy cutting her toast in half, but she looked up at us, Garett and I. She seemed as if to be evaluating us, observing who would give in or give out first. By the time breakfast was finished, it was decided that Garett and I stick together in the arena.

The look in her eyes, remembering it, makes me shudder.

"Hey," Garett stops me before I reach out for the door handle, "whatever it is you want to do, I'll follow suit."

The gesture would've been touching if we aren't to enter a death match. "If I told you I want to escape this place and go back home, would you follow me?"

He doesn't even stop to think. "I would, but you do know they'd kill us before we even get to walk out of here, right?"

I twist the door handle and it pushes itself open. "They wouldn't kill us. They need their tributes from District Eight."

To say that the gymnasium is large is an understatement. When I woke up earlier, I told myself that I should no longer be amazed at the Capitol and their pompous living, but each time a door opens I find myself gaping in awe. Vergil said that the gymnasium is located underground, beneath the Training Center itself, but it doesn't look like it. The ceiling here is higher than what we have back at home. Sprawled throughout the whole area are different kinds of stations, ranging from weapons to target areas to tables that had different materials laid out. There are elevated stands above us at the end of the room, decorated with lavish furniture, including couches and long tables. Few men and women are already there, some of them having glasses of early morning wine in their hands. One already looks so drunk he is a hair-strand away from passing out but no one pays him any mind. They are busy looking at us, the tributes, the pieces to their gruesome game.

Garett whispers, "The Gamemakers," when he realizes where I am looking. I can't bow my head fast enough to not catch one of the men looking at me while licking his lips, a hungry glint in his eyes.

Someone gives us both a piece of cloth with the number 8 written on it. He tells us that there are fifteen minutes left before ten o'clock, the start of training. "Make yourself comfortable before Atala arrives. And don't forget to pin the number on your clothes so that the Gamemakers can distinguish who you are."

"I bet there's no need for that." Garett chuckles. We look up to see the drunk man on the floor, snoring.

There are a few missing tributes, but by counting, more than half of us are already here. The tributes from districts 1 and 2 have already grouped, forming their expected alliance. I see the girl who stepped on my dress, tying up her long blonde hair into a tight bun. The number 2 pinned on her back makes me feel nauseated.

A hand touches my back gently. "Come on," Garett leads me to place where there aren't any tributes.

As soon as we are seated on the floor, I pin the piece of cloth to the back of his shirt. He still smells like mint. I resist the urge to touch his hair and ruffle it. The last thing I need to do right now is to show my affection for Garett in front of these people.

"Cecelia said it wouldn't hurt to get to know some of them." Garett says, eyeing some of the tributes on the other side of the room. He looks again at me. "What's your plan?"

I don't have any plans. Wait, there's probably one: to survive. But planning to survive means the death of one of us, and I am still too fragile to think of Garett dying just so I can go home, or me dying so he can go home instead. I start playing with the tips of my hair, which is tied up in a ponytail. "Whatever Zander's plans are."

"What if his plans suck?"

"They've done this for so many times now, Garett. Their plans don't suck."

"I get that, but _what if?_"

I sigh. "Then I guess I'm dying."

"Stop being so gloomy, Anya." He laughs, although there is no hint of amusement in it. "If Cecelia's plans suck, then I'd probably make an alliance, even if our mentors think that that is not a good idea. Then we'd fight altogether, and scramble away when there are a few of us left."

"What if after you break your alliance, you and your allies become the only ones left? You'll kill each other, then?" I ask.

"I'd rather let them die of natural causes."

I scoff. "Such a plausible answer to something we've seen played out so many times." The Gamemakers always found a way to drive out the tributes, to make them meet in the middle. I've watched some of the specials in Iris' house to know better: a Game where the Victor won because of hiding and waiting for it all to be over is no fun.

He places a hand on my shoulder. "If you don't have any plans, I suggest we make friends today, and allies tomorrow?"

That doesn't sound like a too bad idea. Just as long as we don't get attached, then everything will be alright. I guess that when it comes down to the gong sounding and Claudius Templesmith declaring the beginning of the Games, all of us will forget that we made friends in the first place and focus instead on the need to live. "I guess."

He smiles and leans back. His lips start to move but my attention has been caught by something around his neck. I have a feeling that I have seen it somewhere before: a necklace made out of different colors of cloth woven together. There are no ornaments or anything at all, just the chain, which is a strap now, mostly: a strap of burgundy and royal blue, green, purple, yellow, orange, white... I remember making something of the sort when I was younger, but that alone isn't enough to erase my curiosity and sudden recall.

Garett notices me looking hard at it. He holds it in his fingers and twists it. "Does it look good?"

"Yeah, yeah." I nod, suddenly flushed. "It just… it looks familiar, too."

He chuckles. "Wow, Anya. I can't believe you have poor memory."

"What?"

He holds up the necklace again. "We made things like this in school, when we were younger." My eyes widen at the rush of memories. Yes! I do remember making something like that in school: I remember as well the frustration I felt when I couldn't weave the strap perfectly, although Mom has shown me how to do it countless times. It didn't help that the pieces of cloth I had to weave were of dull colors: just the plain whites, boring grays, and faded blues. "Remember now?" Garett asks, and I nod. Then, the look of amusement on his face changes to nostalgia. "This is what Iris made back then."

It hits me like a slap in the face. Of course… Iris would've given him something before leaving home, something to remember her by. This is his token from Iris, the girl he loves. Something important for her, which now is something important for him. The details are hazy, but I remember sitting next to Iris that day, looking over the work of her hands, how fast they were, how gorgeous were the cloths she used, how she smiled so warmly while making that necklace.

It hits me again. Suddenly, I am in that classroom, wide-eyed and envious, accidentally kicking off my shoe as I waited for Iris to finish up.

"It's just a stupid craft exercise. What's taking you so long?" I asked Iris. Nidle and Garett have already left to race each other, and I stayed behind to go home together with Iris. I was pretty bitter about the fact that my necklace looked like garbage next to hers. I hopped over to where my shoe was.

"I'm almost done," the tone of Iris' voice dripped of happiness. "I need to make this look wonderful."

"Why? Are you giving it to someone?" I asked. "Mine's ugly, so it's going straight into my drawer."

"I'm giving it to Garett."

I turned around to see Iris blushing wildly, a distant look in her eyes. That was the first time I had heard that she liked Garett. Nidle always teased her about that, but I never believed him, because I had a small crush on Garett then, too. "You like Garett?" I asked incredulously, to make sure that I had heard everything right.

"Yes." She smiled wider, grinning like an idiot. "Then I'll tell him that I like him."

Sufficient to say, two years passed before she told Garett that she liked him, and it's only now that she gave him the necklace she carefully wove that day. She had tons of beautiful things—expensive things—to give him, but in the end, sentimental Iris opted to give Garett the necklace she wove with her feelings.

I received nothing but the tears of my family and Nidle's kiss. I ball my hands into fists to conceal the unpleasant feelings.

"She loves you." I blurt out.

Garett smiles a sad smile. "I love her, too, but it's kind of sad that when I see this, I'm reminded that I might not come home at all." He chuckles, and tries to change our sullen mood into something more joyful. "At least you don't have to worry about losing something precious in the arena."

I try to keep up with him, wanting to leave the sad feelings behind. "Maybe I could borrow one of Vergil's wigs for a token."

"With him being an ass, I bet he'd tell you to get one over his dead body."

"He'd actually make a decent person to practice on."

"I'll be the one to hold him down, then?"

"What's the point if he's held down? Moving targets are better to practice with." We laugh, and just then, a female voice erupts from the middle of the room.

"Tributes, gather around." I look over to where the voice is coming from and see a tall, dark-skinned woman in the center of the room, a shiny whistle hanging around her neck. She's dressed in black, with trimmings of red and gold, the seal of Panem shining brightly on her left breast pocket. I stand up and help Garett up. In front of her, the other tributes have already gathered in a semi-circle, in order of district number. The strong-looking pair from District 1 have straight looks on their faces, while the twelve year-old from 5 looks around the room nervously. When Garett and I go to our places, I could not help but notice that the girl from 2 was looking at me, her eyebrow raised. I don't know where the courage comes from, but I raise an eyebrow in return.

The woman introduces herself as Atala, the head trainer. She reminds us all of the things we need to do and not to do: never ignore the survival skills, like fire-making; never fight with the other tributes. "Basic survival skills are just as important as weaponry. Building a fire or learning how to purify your water can mean a large difference in arenas where those kinds of sources are scarce. You can die from dehydration, from hypothermia—natural causes are as deadly as the wounds from a weapon. There are plenty of stations you can try out, with instructors that can help you." A few more reminders, and she sends us off to whatever station we prefer. Of course, the already-murder oriented tributes from 1, 2, and 4 all go to the stations that are related to weapons. I see the girl from 2 go over to the sword station.

"Show-offs," I mutter, and Garett lightly pushes me away.

"Make friends." He laughs as he heads for the snares station.

I roll my eyes. "Don't get too attached."

"I won't," he assures me with a smile before heading towards his station preference.

I bet I can't make friends anyway. The other kids would probably be busy learning how to survive rather than make friends with people they're bound to kill the next few days. I sigh and gather up my courage instead. I plant my feet on the ground, relax my shoulders, inhale and exhale, just like what I do before racing Garett. I need to focus— being distracted would blow my chances out of the water. Inhale, exhale, until my nerves are settled, which takes a shorter time than I thought it would. With one last shake of my shoulders, I go over to the knots station.

_The knots station!_ What can I learn from here, aside from tying knots, obviously? I am starting to change my mind at the last minute, ready to step back from the station, when the trainer, a short, muscular man with blue hair and tattoos that slither around his arms and neck, smiles a beaming smile at me. I know by his smile that I'm trapped. I smile back and continue to walk towards the table.

"Hello there!" His voice isn't what I expected it would be. It's high-pitched, dripping with excitement. A lower voice would suit his appearance more, but I'm starting to bet that his voice suits his personality better than his body. "Here to learn about knots?"

"No," I say dryly, my enthusiasm clearly not matching his, "I'm here to learn about making fire."

He laughs loudly. "Quite the sarcastic puppy, I see!" He laughs again.

I try to match up with him: I laugh along with him, wanting to catch on with the _sarcastic puppy_ standard he set on me. "I like people who get jokes."

"Let's get started, shall we?" He says before handing me a piece of rope. "I'm Fido, by the way."

"Anya," I tell him, though he probably knew by now, "from District Eight."

"Ah, the land of textiles." He says with a blissful sigh before launching into full-teacher mode and teaching about knots.

The first knot was easy. Fido said that that knot was ideal for tying up things, like tying up together pieces of cloth to make one longer tie which can be used in various situations. The second knot, third, fourth knots were easy too. It was during the fifth knot that I started fumbling around Fido's instructions.

"Ack, no," he said after I show him my latest attempt at getting the knot, "you always miss this part. You have to make a loop before the _other_ loop."

I feel like my brain is turning into loops. However, I get it after being closely guided, and then again when he told me to try it on my own.

I could not help but beam up. I finally did something right. Fido offered his hand for a high five, to which I gladly obliged.

"Now here's how to do a noose," he said when I got over my joy.

After perfecting the noose, I turn to see the digital clock. An hour has passed since I started on the knots, and there were a lot more stations to be explored. A lot of the tributes have already shuffled stations. Before Fido can get started on another knot, I excuse myself.

"I'll be back soon." I tell him.

He smiles. "Go on, Anya. I have other tributes to teach, too."

I decide that if Fido was a tribute, he would be a member of my alliance.

I stretch for a quick second before heading over to the middle of the training grounds where I can see the stations clearly. I stood there for a few good minutes before seeing the ropes course. Two tributes are lined up there— the male tribute from District 3, and the female tribute from District 6. The trainer was writing something on his booklet before turning over to the boy and signaling him to start. I hurriedly run over to the station and line up behind the girl from 6.

The boy from 3 climbs a podium where he can start the course. He jumps up and reaches for the rope, and starts swinging to get to another part of the course. I follow him closely with my eyes, occasionally wincing when he looks like he is about to fall. I bet his weight isn't that much of a burden to him. He looks like a real gust of wind might blow him away.

How hard must it hurt if he fell and cracked one of his ribs.

I can hear the tribute in front of me gulp when he is almost at the end of the course. I could not help but feel tense, too. When the boy reaches the end of the course and jumps down to safety, the girl and I breathe sighs of relief in unison. I even gave a short applause.

The girl turns to me before the trainer can call her name. "He makes it look easy." My eyes settle on the scar above her right eyebrow. She's really pretty, with light brown eyes, brown hair, and a small nose. On her face are sprays of freckles. _Sunkisses,_ my mother called them.

"I hope it is." I smile. She smiles too, and I see that she has a dimple. "Good luck."

"Thanks," she says. The trainer calls her name and she mounts up the podium. She inhales and exhales, jumping up to reach the rope.

I could feel her straining as she reaches for the next part of the net. From where I'm standing, I could see her face becoming redder and redder as she goes from the next part to the next. She's slower than the boy before her, and I could feel my stomach twisting when she stretches her arm out too long.

I almost gasped when she seemingly missed part of the net, but she didn't. The sigh of relief I made was probably the reason the trainer smiled. When she reached the end of the course, I wanted to take a long drink of water. I'm supposed to do what they did, right? Cross the net without falling? Piece of cake!

It's _supposed_ to be that way, right?

The girl comes up behind me and taps me on the back. "I have a feeling you'll do good." She says breathlessly. Her belief in me actually boosts my spirits, so I turn to her and say thanks. She bids me good luck, the same thing I did to her, and I hear the trainer call my name.

With a gulp, I climb the podium and shake off the nerves. _Come on, you have to do this,_ I tell myself. With one final shake, I jump, and my hand reaches the rope. It feels just like how the piece of rope Fido gave me when I started at the knots station. Before I get strained from holding on too long, I reach for the next part of the net.

The girl from 6 was right. They tribute from 3 made it look easy. This course is the hardest thing I have ever come across with. I can support my weight just fine, but I can't reach the next part without straining myself too much. Were my arms ever this short? I try to reach for the net, and it's a miracle in itself that I hold onto it. However, my momentum doesn't help my other arm. It dangles at my side, my other arm suddenly doing support all on its own. I make my free arm reach out for the net again, and thankfully I hold on. I could feel a burning pain in the sockets of my arms, though. I'm not even halfway across the course, and my arms have already been stretched out too long.

I feel stupid for never using the monkey bars at the playground behind our school.

I look down, trying to ignore the pain in my arms. There are mattresses below to catch the tributes if they fall. The distance from the net and the mattresses were probably only a few feet, but I feel that if I fall, there still would be pain.

No, I can't fall. Not after I've only done knots and not after I've been wished good luck by the girl from District 6.

I reach for the next branch of the next, but the pain grows. _Launch yourself!_ I think, and I swing towards the next branch so I could hold on.

But I miss. I make a mistake, and I fall.

I hear the _thud_ my fall makes. I open my eyes and see the ropes course above me. The trainer hovers over me, probably to make sure that I'm still alive. I trace the course with my eyes. I didn't even make it past half the course. What an embarrassment.

Someone reaches out their hand to me. I take it and sit up. It's the girl from 6. She looks like she's trying to find words to say. Words of consolation, perhaps. After all, she made it to the end, and not me. I could feel anger bubbling in my mouth, but I swallow it. It's not her fault I fell. It's due to my own incompetence. "He _did_ make it look easy." I throw my head back and laugh. She laughs too, before helping me up to stand.

I dust off my pants. She reaches her hand out again to me, and I realize she is introducing herself. "I'm Marcy, by the way." She says with a shy smile. Suddenly, I recall who she is. She's the girl who was biting her nails during the tribute parade. "Marcy Alpin."

I take her hand and shake it. "Anya Sowe."

"Lysistrata," I hear the trainer call out. Marcy and I clear out of the mattresses, and I see a figure climbing up the podium. When she straightens, I see that it's the girl from District 2. I can't tear my eyes away from her. How is she going to fare in this course? I hope worse than me. I hope she jumps and doesn't catch the rope.

But she does, and she crosses the course fast, even faster than the boy from three. When she lands, I see that she didn't even break a sweat. She raises her eyebrow again at me, and tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Too easy," she says, her voice high and sweet, far from the monster that lurks beneath her façade. She smirks at me before making her way towards the archery station where the trainer greets her with a straight face.

I ball my hands into fists.

"Did she try the course just so she can talk to you like that?" Marcy asks, her voice filled with disbelief.

I nod.

"Wow. What a bitch." She says, and I could not help but laugh. I have a feeling that Marcy and I would be great friends.

"Hey," I say after catching my breath, "want to try the boxing station?"

"Do they have punching bags with faces on them?" She asks too brightly. I have a feeling that she has not taken the greatest liking to Lysistreti, whatever her name is.

"I doubt it." I grin.


	8. I'll Follow

_**A special thank you to Davos Seaworth for the review! And thank you to all the viewers, I appreciate it :) So, I finally got to storyboarding the chapters on this fic, so here's to hoping that the pace will now pick up. Thank you again!**_

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><p>The flames dance around, and my eyes follow it without any hesitation. It's already been minutes since I finally lit the fire, and frustration from not being able to light one earlier melted away and has turned into something beautiful. Even the frustration from not being able to finish the ropes course has buried itself. It feels as if the fire I lit burned all the frustration away. But there's also this nagging feeling that I am forgetting something.<p>

To the station next to mine, I can hear the trainer praising Marcy about her aim. She has been bringing down bottles with a slingshot for some time now, with the trainer even timing her as soon as she showed her aptitude with a slingshot.

"You can go places with that skill, kid," the trainer, a man with dark skin and bushy yellow hair, tells her. He has a big smile on his face that reminds me of Dad. Dad smiled like that the day I cooked Mom's soup without fail. He smiled like that when Cliff stood up for one of his friends at school and earned a black-eye for it, and when Bron stood up for the first time on his tiny toddler legs.

The thought of my dad's smile makes me want to cry.

"Too bad I only have one place to go now." Marcy jokes, and she and the trainer share a laugh.

Just then, a buzzer sounds out. I turn around to see that Atala is in the middle of the room, hands behind her back, body straight, and a serious look on her face. "Time for lunch. We'll continue training after ninety minutes. Renee will lead you to the cafeteria and back." Renee is at the door, a servant with a normal look to her, with her short black hair and red uniform.

"Put out your fire, then, Miss Eight." My trainer says with a small smile. She hands me a bucket of water. "Neglected fires can be a cause of death, you know. Just like what happened with a tribute from the earlier Games. I forgot what exact year it was, but it was terrible. I remember watching the footage some time last month."

"I'll keep that in mind," I promise and pour the water over the fire.

"I thought Atala was announcing an evacuation order or something." Marcy says from behind me. I've grown accustomed to the sound of her voice. "She looks every bit like a soldier to me."

"Nice job with the slingshots." I tell her, and a grin breaks out on her face.

"Really? Thank you." She smiles. "Come on, let's have lunch."

We start heading towards the door, where several tributes have started gathering. The door opens and Renee leads us out. The walk to the canteen was fairly short, less than a hundred steps. I wonder why we even needed a servant to direct the way. We reach another door, and Renee pushes a button next to it. The door opens, and she stretches out her arm inside, instructing us to go in.

I realize that I'm starving when a delicious smell wafts out of the room. All of us waste no time and go inside. My stomach makes a faint rumbling sound.

The canteen brings me back to District 8. It's just like the canteen at the factory I work at, with bare walls and hanging lights, long tables and benches that could hold up to five people each. The only difference is that this canteen has carts and carts full of food, from soups to bread to meats and seafood and various bits of other scrumptious food. When we pass by a table, I notice that its centerpiece is a basket of bread. The sound of plates clinking as the tributes take their food fills my ears. It makes me even hungrier.

I take two trays and hand the other one to Marcy. "Let's eat."

"Whoever finishes getting food first will reserve the table?" She says.

I nod and we go our separate ways. I head over to the cart for soups. There are about fifteen varieties of soups, some with ingredients I've unheard of. I scoop the crab and corn soup into a bowl and place it gingerly on my tray. I head over to the cart that had the meats and select roasted beef. A few minutes later, my tray is filled with my soup, the roasted beef, a serving of buttered mashed potatoes, a small plate of vegetable salad, two fish sticks, chocolate pudding, a glass of water, and a glass of orange juice.

I see Marcy already seated, and I go over to her, avoiding touching elbows with the other tributes. I put down my tray from across her and seat myself. She is already eating noodles. "This is great!" She says after swallowing. She takes a look at my plate and her eyes widen. "You're going to eat all that?"

"I'll try to." I stir the crab and corn soup. "Making fire made me hungry." I take a look at her tray, too. There's a plate of steamed vegetables, buttered shrimp, red noodles with cheese grated on top, a serving of chocolate pudding, and a small plate of sandwiches. In the top right corner of her tray is a ring-shaped bread: it's colored gray, with intersecting lines on the top, as if it had been pressed too hard with two forks. In any case, it looked too simple against the backdrop of the other scrumptious and colorful food on her tray. I think Marcy notices me staring too long at the bread because she takes it and offers it to me.

"Hey, if you want it so much you can just tell me." She laughs. Her remark makes me blush.

"No!" I say defensively, almost spilling some crab and corn soup on my shirt. "I was just looking at it, really. I didn't see something like that at the bread cart."

"Oh, it's because it's from here." She pulls the basket of bread towards us. At the top of the pile is another piece of bread just like the one on her plate. She places her bread on my plate and takes the one at the top of the pile. "It's the bread of District Six."

District 6 bread from the basket? I suddenly feel excited. I search the basket, piling the other bread carefully until I find the one that I am looking for. A smile spreads across my face when I see it. I hold it up and smile at it, a lump forming in my throat.

It's the bread from District 8. The pretzel of my home. I bite on it. It's salty and tough to chew on, exactly like how it's supposed to be. I take a bite of it again before a tear could escape my eye. It could've been the best bread I've ever had in the Capitol.

"It's nice of them to give us a token from home." Marcy says wistfully.

"Cruel of them, actually." A voice says. Marcy and I both look up and see a boy, his sandy-colored hair in messy spikes. He has a square jaw like Zander's, I notice first. My eyes find the number on his shirt: 12. "Reminding you of home when it's them who took you away in the first place. Uh, can I sit with you guys?"

I look around to check if there are no more tables available, and see that there are. My eyes and Marcy's meet. I cock my head to the side and so does she. I place my pretzel on my plate.

"Come on, guys," the boy says, attempting to chuckle although it sounded like a strained cry for help. "I don't want to eat by myself."

Marcy shrugs. "It's fine with me. Anya?"

"Okay with me, too." I say, although I am still confused at his sudden entrance. Why does he want to sit with us? I lightly push the basket of bread away from me.

The boy seats himself next to Marcy. "Thanks a bunch." His tray makes a soft sound when he puts it down. I notice that he, too, has chocolate pudding on his tray. He stretches out his hand to Marcy. "I'm Aiden, by the way. District Twelve."

Marcy looks as his hand carefully before taking it in hers and shaking it. "Marcy, District Six."

Aiden stretches his hand out to me next. I shake it. He has a firm grip. "Anya, District Eight." As soon as we let go, I go back to my soup. Marcy starts on her steamed vegetables. For a short while, it's only the clinking of utensils that can be heard from our table.

It's Aiden who breaks the silence. "You're probably wondering why I wanted to sit with you guys." He dips his fish stick in ketchup and takes a bite.

"You didn't want to eat alone, right?" I say. The buttered mashed potatoes are delicious, like always.

"Yep." His lips make a clicking sound at the –p. He points his spoon over at a table. Marcy and I follow where he's pointing at. "Those are the Careers. Everybody knows you have to prove yourself before sitting with them." I look hard enough to see the girl from 2, Isistretto, sitting with her district partner and the tributes from districts 1 and 4.

"Careers?" Marcy asks. The term sounds weird to us both.

"That's what we call those guys back at Twelve. You know, since they make a career of these Games." Aiden states before taking a bite off of a slice of bread. "So, they train for these Games at a young age, and volunteer when they're ready—"

"We know how they work," Marcy interrupts. I hide a smile. Is this really the girl I saw biting her nails at the Tribute Parade? "Thanks for letting us know."

"And over those tables," he says, pointing again, this time with his fork, "are the tributes with their district partners. Oh, and some loners too."

I see the table where the boy from District 3 is sitting alone. Beside that table is another one where the tributes of District 7 sit. I turn back to Aiden and raise my eyebrows at him. "Why not just sit with _your_ district partner? She's there with the ones from Seven."

He makes a face. "Callie? _Blech_." He pretends to vomit. "She hates my guts. It's alright, since I hate her guts, too."

"But you're from the same district." Marcy says.

"Well, Miss Doesn't-Know-It-All, just because we're from the same district doesn't mean we're _obliged_ to like each other."

Someone puts their hand on my shoulder. "Unlike in Eight, where there is nothing stronger than our love for each and every one of our citizens." The voice makes me jump. _That's it!_ My brain screams at me, the nagging feeling stronger than before. _There's the thing you've been forgetting, you idiot!_

I turn around and shout, "Garett!" I seem to take him by surprise. He almost lets go of his tray, but he doesn't. Only a small amount of water spills out from his glass. He places the tray immediately on the table and sits down, probably because almost all of the tributes in the room are looking at our table now. I have the decency to feel embarrassed, so I blush. I turn back to my food in an instant.

"Missed me?" Garett quips after he's settled down. I look over at his tray and see a plate of seafood, noodles, fresh fruit, and the same chocolate pudding all of us have.

"Stupid Garett." I reply before chewing on a slice of roast beef.

I can't believe I easily forgot about him once training actually started! How could I? He surely should've been a familiar sight in the training stations, or even as we walked towards the canteen. How could I have not noticed him at least once when training started? I feel ashamed. Upset, more so. But knowing Garett, he'll just brush it off, as always.

I'm still upset, though.

He introduces himself to Marcy and Aiden. I actually see Marcy blushing at the sight of my district partner. She's attracted to him. She obviously is. Even if she hasn't said anything, or done anything, I know she is. I have perfect senses when it comes to this. I could not help but laugh.

"Why are you laughing?" Aiden asks.

"This vegetable salad is delicious." I avoid the subject horribly.

"And it makes you laugh with its deliciousness?" Aiden presses on.

I shrug my shoulders, hoping that he would stop. He did, thankfully. We proceed to do small talk, our lives back in the districts. Marcy is training to be a mechanic for the trains, just like her father. Aiden is from what he calls the 'rich part' of his district: his family owns a shop. A drugstore, he calls it. Callie, his district partner, is poor and has always had a hatred for the people living in his part of the district.

"I don't get her, really." He says as he chews on a piece of bread from his district. "It's only us who have to help each other, and yet she hates my guts."

Marcy rolls her eyes. "_Wow._ I can't imagine why."

"Your sarcasm is lovely." Aiden turns to Garett and me. "And you guys? What do you do back in Eight? Textiles, right?"

Garett answers for the both of us. "We work in the factories. Pushing buttons and stuff."

Aiden makes a face. "Nothing even remotely interesting? You people seem plainer than us from Twelve."

"There's nothing plain about having to work for more than eight hours a day." I say, and I break another District 8 pretzel in half. I give the other half to Garett, and he starts eating it.

"So," Garett deviates—maybe because he misses home as much as I do, and is starting to hate talking about it—"what have you guys done today?" He pops a shrimp into his mouth.

Marcy answers as swift as the wind, her voice suddenly sounding sweeter and more… girly. "I tried the slingshot station. Also, the knots and the ropes course."

My ears perk up at the mention of the ropes course. Somehow, I want to die of embarrassment.

Aiden licks his fingers. "I did the Gauntlet. Almost got hit by one of the big sacks."

"I tried that first," Garett says, "then camouflage and a little bit of archery." He turns to me, smiling that very Garett smile. I want to curl up in a ball and hide away. Because why, I don't really understand.

I count with my fingers. "Knots, boxing, fire…" then my voice drops into a terrible whisper because of my shame, "and the ropes course."

"What?" Garett asks, bringing his face closer to me. "I didn't hear you."

My defense mechanism kicks in. I push him away, lightly than I probably should have. "The ropes course, stupid."

"Ah!" Aiden suddenly points his fork at me. "You were the one who fell!"

_Thank you, genius,_ I think. I bury my face in my hands. "Fine," I start talking, confessing my sins so no can humiliate me further, "I fell down the ropes course. I didn't even make it to half of the stupid _halfway_, so can we just eat again?" I attack my pudding with the spoon and shove it in my mouth. It feels like a bunch of storm clouds have formed above my head. Needless to say, the pudding was very delicious.

"You never tried the money bars behind the school, did you?" Garett asks.

I shake my head. "Shut up and eat your pudding."

"It's actually _really_ good." Marcy follows up. "The pudding, I mean."

Aiden takes a bite of his own. His face lights up, a grin spreading on his lips. His smile reminds me of Nidle's, the way his face would light up when Iris would give us candy. It's like a punch in the stomach, remembering Nidle all too well. Knowing that days from now, the last smile I will ever see of him was the one when we said goodbye to each other.

I swallow hard and shove another spoonful of pudding down my throat.

"Isn't it funny how all of us have the same dessert?" Marcy giggles, the sound of which comforts me a bit. I take a look at Garett, then Aiden, then Marcy. We are all holding the same serving of chocolate pudding, served in small white bowls.

It hits me, then. I glance back at Garett, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He is looking at me, too, his eyebrow raised.

"_You can make friends, or allies, if you prefer." _Cecelia said.

"_Just don't get too attached. You'll see, at the beginning of the Games, the alliances wouldn't matter at all." _Zander said, too.

It feels like my head is about to burst.

"The Pudding Alliance." Aiden suddenly says, his bowl of pudding high in the air. "It has a nice ring to it, right?"

I stare at him. _The Pudding Alliance?_ _Alliance?_ "Alliance?" I confirm.

"Yep. Alliance." Aiden grins. He turns to Marcy. "You already have one?"

Marcy shakes her head. I think she's about to say something, but Aiden turns to Garett and asks him the same question. Garett briefly glances at me before answering, "Not really."

"And you?" Aiden points his bowl of pudding at me.

I cannot believe this guy. Marcy and I are friends, I guess, although we haven't talked that much yet. Garett and I don't have solid plans about partnering up just yet. And he said earlier to make friends today, alliances tomorrow! I take one good look at Aiden, with his sandy hair, his blue eyes, and a kind of recklessness etched on his smile. Alliances help you out of the arena. Sometimes they're the slightest difference between life and death. Alliances can either make or break a tribute. Am I ready to put my trust in Aiden and Marcy just because Garett and I have the same dessert as them?

"What do you say?" He urges me on. I look to Garett, and then to Marcy.

Marcy looks at me cautiously. She's probably measuring my agreement to Aiden's suggestion. I'm not even sure where I stand right now. "Well, I think it's a nice idea." She fidgets with her spoon. "I mean, we aren't… um… aren't, uh, even sure if we'll last long enough, you know, to see each other again." She shrugs her shoulders as if her words aren't such a big deal.

I envy how Marcy can remain aware of the situation. I take another bite of my pudding.

"Exactly." Aiden says. "We have everything to gain if we meet up in the arena, but nothing to lose if we don't meet up."

"So it's going to work this way. We find each other in the arena, we're allies. We don't, we're not, and we don't have any obligation to each other." Garett's voice surprises me. I guess he isn't on the edge about this whole alliance thing as I thought he would probably be. I put the bowl of pudding down and place my hands on my lap.

"That's right, my friend." Aiden replies.

I feel the warmth of Garett's palm on the top of my hand. He squeezes my hand gently. When I look at him, his eyes are filled with concern and gentleness. My heart thumps. I've seen this look before. I've felt this kind of comfort before. For a second, I am back in his house in District 8, lighting crashing, tears on my face, his lips on mine. _"You don't have to do this if you don't want to,"_ he seems to be saying.

I bite my lip. Am I ready to make a decision? I guess I am. After all, they do have a point. If we find each other in the arena, we can gain some things. If we don't, we won't lose anything. "It's okay with me, I guess." Zander's half-right. Make alliances while you aren't attached just yet.

Aiden breaks out into an even bigger smile. "So it's a yes from you, then?"

I nod. He proceeds to ask Marcy if she too is okay with the Pudding Alliance. She says yes, too. "And you, Garett?" Aiden asks to my partner.

"Fine with me." He coolly says. As soon as Aiden starts blabbing about the basic code of an alliance and other bunch of stuff, I take his hand and put it in between mine. His hand feels softer in mine, like it's my hand his belongs to and not anyone else's. I squeeze it.

"Thank you," I say under my breath.

Another squeeze back. He leans close to my ear and whispers, "I'll follow you anywhere, you know."

I feel my cheeks turning red. I am about to say "Stupid Garett" when I catch my tongue and say, "You can't dump such a big responsibility on me." instead. I get a chuckle in return.

Planning out the alliance isn't an easy feat. Once every one of us realized what in the world we were really thinking, questions arose. Questions such as are we going to do the same training? Or are we just going to do training on our own and hope that our skills don't overlap when we see each other in the arena? In the end, we all agree to do our training separately today and try to train altogether tomorrow.

"What if the other kids notice we're starting an alliance?" Marcy asks. I look back at the table where the Careers are sitting. Obviously, they have an alliance of their own. It's actually scary, how all these great kids at handling swords and axes and all these weapons are in one group, ready to hunt as down as soon as the gong sounds.

"My guess is they wouldn't care at all," Garett says. "In all honesty, I don't think we're a group to be reckoned with, unlike the guys over there." He looks over at the Careers' table. "Anyway, it'll all be the same. They'd still see us as individuals."

"If we see each other in the arena, we really have to use this alliance to our advantage. Let's try looking low-key for now." Aiden says. "Rack up all the skills you can, and then—"

The buzzer sounds. Tributes start standing up, leaving the trays behind. Aiden groans before we do the same. "See you guys around," he waves at us before going out of the dining area ahead of us.

"If this blows up in our face," Marcy turns to me with a grimace, "I'm going to cry."

"It's going to be fine," I smile—hoping that it really will be— "probably."


	9. Heroes

"Don't put your weight in the front leg." Finn, the trainer at the knife-throwing station, shows me again just how it is done. He bends his knees, stretches his left arm, and grips the handle of the knife with his right. "When you put weight in the front from the very beginning, the momentum gets lost. You only do that when you swing."

I do as he says. Don't put the weight in front. Put it in the back, where the dominant leg is positioned. I poise myself to throw. When my wrist is in line with the target, I let the knife fly. Excitement fills my chest until I hear the knife clatter on the floor.

Finn raises his eyebrows. "At least you got the legs right."

"Thanks." I reply, although I know that the principle regarding the right placement of the legs will be rendered useless once I start panicking.

"You can always try again and again." He says in a warm tone, like a parent to their child. "Here." He hands me another knife. I take it graciously and position myself yet again. I've been great at the Gauntlet, like Garett said. I was fast enough to avoid the flying obstacles and those gigantic sacks. I sucked a little at the edible plants, though. I just couldn't figure out the plants' differences for the most part. Garett and I got to spend time in the net-weaving station where he urged me to try weapons again.

"You can't live on survival skills alone, Anya." He sighed.

_Watch me,_ I wanted to retort. I didn't, and headed here, where clearly, I still suck.

I let the knife fly out of my hand again. _Don't resist the follow-up_, I remind myself. It misses the center of the target by about ten rings.

"_Damn it_," I whine.

"At least you got it into the target this time."

"Yay for me." I sigh. "Thank you, Finn. Might see you tomorrow again." I leave the station before I can humiliate myself even further.

I hope the Pudding Alliance _does_ find me in the arena, because if they don't, I will end up dead within the first few hours of the Game.

I find myself tracing where the Careers have been. They seem to be lazing around, now that some of them are in the survival skills station. The monstrous boy from District 1 is at the net-weaving station with his district partner. They actually look like friendly kids, with their smiles. They volunteered for these Games because they're the most apt in their district. I wonder what kind of training they went through.

I reach another station: hand to hand combat. Now that the day is drawing to a close, I figured I'd better rack up one more skill that I might not suck at. The trainer wastes no time. She introduces herself and immediately teaches me the basics of offense and defense. She teaches me blocks and attacks at the same time. Don't use your hands for blocking when you can just evade the attack. Try to figure out the opponent's weakest points. Usually that's the place they protect. For the boys, always aim for the shins.

Atala comes in again and goes to the center of the room. "Tributes, gather around." She says in a very commanding voice. We gather around her. I find Garett and slip beside him. He has beads of sweat forming on his temples, and his face is rather red.

"Rest well. I will see all of you again for training tomorrow. Dismissed." Atala says. Several tributes start chattering around as they head to the elevators. I am about to tell Garett that we should go when Aiden approaches us, Marcy trailing from behind him. Along with her is a little boy. Her district partner, I realize when I see the 6 pinned on his sleeve.

"Let's meet up early tomorrow," Aiden says, "so we can plan."

"Plan?" I wrinkle my nose. "Plan what?"

"Things." He shrugs. He eyes Marcy's partner.

We get into one elevator. I press the 8, and then the 6, and finally the 12. The door closes and up we go. Marcy gets off first with her partner.

"See you tomorrow, Anya," she smiles as she herds her partner out. "Garett." The doors close as she waves goodbye.

Aiden snorts. "You'd think I wasn't here."

I giggle. "I think she doesn't even know you exist."

The door opens to our floor. I get out first, and then Garett. "See you tomorrow," he tells Aiden. Aiden just nods and the doors close, leaving us alone.

"Marcy's nice," Garett says as we head for the living room.

"She likes you." I laugh as I push open the door.

Garett smirks playfully. "You're jealous?"

"Oh, I am." I joke back. A little too half-heartedly for my taste, actually. We are about to turn left to the living room when we hear voices. Arguing voices.

"You have to change that, Z." Cecelia's voice sounds stern. I stop dead in my tracks. Before Garett could step further, I grab the end of his shirt and hold him back. "I am not going to follow through with that."

"The issue is not yours to worry about, Ces." Zander replies, his tone a little more relaxed than Cecelia's. "I can handle enough, thank you."

"Oh, yeah. And make the kid as miserable if they become the Victor?" Cecelia says back. "Haven't you learned enough from us? From the other victors? You're going to destroy a life, potentially!"

"It's not as if their lives aren't destroyed." Zander mutters.

I feel like my ears are going to pop. Who are they talking about? Is it Garett, or me? My grip on Garett's shirt tightens. A lump is forming in my throat. Destroying a life? How bad is the issue they're talking about? I want to know more, and, at the same time, kick into my defense mechanism and block everything out.

Then Garett holds my hand in his. He puts a finger over his lips, as if to say, "Shh," and pries my grip from his shirt. He walks into the living room, me following him like an obedient dog. Zander is sitting on the couch, hands clasped together, his eyebrows creased. Woof is sitting on the other side of the room, oblivious to the world. A frowning Cecelia is standing, arms folded to her chest. I cast my head down, as if it's my fault that they're in the midst of an argument.

"You're back." Cecelia breaks the silence first. I notice that her voice is calmer now, but still a little bit strained, the kind of voice she uses to her children after a long telephone call from the Capitol. "How was training?"

Garett answers for the both of us. "It went well. How're things up here?"

"None of your business, kid." Zander tells him.

"Shut it, Z." Cecelia says. "Everything's okay, Garett. No need to worry."

"Really?" Garett asks. "Things didn't sound too good before we came in here."

"Said it's none of your business, kid." Zander reinforces.

I squeeze my best friend's hand. "Just drop it, Garett."

I hear Zander begin saying something when Woof wonders aloud, "I wonder what's for dinner." I raise my head and see him smiling wistfully in our direction. "I hope they cook the shrimp marinated in wine and soy sauce. It's my favorite."

Cecelia sighs. "Clean up before dinner, you two." She tells us before heading into her own room.

Zander stands up and stretches. "Glad that's over." He mutters. He looks at Garett, then me, and then at our hands. He raises an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Hand-holding." Garett flat out answers. I feel my cheeks reddening.

"How cute." Zander sarcastically says. He runs a hand through his hair. "Do what Cecelia said. Clean up before dinner."

We do as we are bid. I take a shower to freshen up. My closet of clothes here is larger than the one back at the train. I pick out the most comfortable clothes I see: a pair of cotton pants and a baggy grey shirt. As soon as my hair dries, I tie it up in a ponytail. My muscles are aching a bit from the physical activity I've done all day. My back and arms are strained from the knife throwing, my fists just a little bit sore from boxing. I could still remember the sensation of falling down the ropes course. I don't want to be alone in my room, so I go to the living room only to be met with silence. Woof isn't there, and so are Zander, and Ces, and Garett. I'm even starting to miss the sound of Vergil's voice. I pick at my nail polish to pass the time.

I have completely cleaned off the nail polish from my left thumb when Zander sits on the couch opposite mine. He looks as if he has taken a shower, too, with his brown hair slicked back and wet. He props both feet on the coffee table, and proceeds to open a book.

I move on to my pointing finger. "The water helped cool off your head?" I mutter beneath my breath.

He hears me, though. "The healing qualities of a Capitol shower, really." The sound of a page flipping follows.

I chew the inside of my cheek. Talking to Zander has always been hard, but hearing him and Cecelia argue earlier made it even harder. Do I have to continue talking? Maybe he would just get mad at me since he's reading. I might even be bothering him. Whatever comes out of my mouth is probably nonsense to him.

But I blurt out, "Are you really going to destroy my life?"

Zander shifts his eyes from the book to me. From where I am sitting, I notice that his eyes are grey, like the clouds during a storm. He closes his book and throws it to the couch beside him. He clasps his hands together. "Where did that come from, sweetcheeks?"

"Cecelia said it earlier. That you're going to destroy a life, potentially." I answer, picking at the nail polish harder than before. "I figure it's _my_ life, y'know, since you're the one overseeing me."

"I'm the one overseeing you, that's right," he says, "so why the hell would I destroy your life?"

Shame bubbles in my mouth. "I don't know how, okay! I'm just asking you things!"

Zander sighs. "A mentor's job is to guide a tribute to victory, if the latter is _that_ lucky. We're not out here to destroy lives."

"Fine, then." I bow my head and furiously pick at my nail polish. "Sorry."

A few seconds of silence passes by before he speaks again. "Tell me how your training went."

I snort. "Forget about you destroying my life. I'm doing a great job destroying it myself."

"I applaud your wit, sweetcheeks, but can you just tell me how your training went?"

I have no choice, so I tell him how it went down. What stations I visited, what stations I actually liked, what felt easy, what was hard. I tell him about Marcy and Aiden and the whole Pudding Alliance thing. I tell him how the girl from District 2 is probably writing my name on top of her kill list. Reluctantly, I also tell him about my blunder at the ropes course. "I fell flat on my back. Everyone saw, I think."

"Sometimes, showing a weakness to others make you an even stronger opponent." He says cryptically.

"No shit," I mutter.

"And this… _Pudding_ Alliance?"

"I told you, it's all from the idea of the male from Twelve." I shrug. "I guess he doesn't even know how this alliance thing might play out for all of us."

Zander chuckles, a reaction I wasn't anticipating. "Haymitch might've gotten a thinker this year."

Just then, Garett and Cecelia emerge from the hall. Cecelia is dressed up, complete with pretty accessories and make-up. Garett looks plain beside her, but nevertheless dashing. The way his hair is tousled reminds me of Nidle back at home. It feels like a knife twisting in my stomach. I look down at my fingers, pretending that it looks more interesting than stupid handsome Garett.

"We'll carry on tomorrow, Garett." Cecelia says. I hear her heels clicking, and, seconds later, she touches my shoulder. I look up to see her brown eyes, warm and a little bit sad. "Enjoy your dinner."

"Where are you going?" I blurt out. "You're not eating with us?"

Cecelia smiles. "I can't. I have to meet someone. I'll see you guys tomorrow, though." She pats my head, nods briefly at Zander, and then heads for the door. She's out in mere seconds. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see that Garett sits on the couch beside mine. As he sits, I could smell a faint scent. Cologne, probably, and it smells too good. We share a glance and a smile.

"The Pudding Alliance, huh?" Zander begins.

"You said we could make friends." Garett shrugs.

"What'd Ces say?" Zander asks. He settles his feet on the floor and leans forward.

"She was cool about it. Said that it might help us." My partner's answer doesn't surprise me at all. It's actually comforting that Cecelia is okay with us having an alliance.

We sit there for another ten minutes, talking about how the first day of training went, when Woof comes out of his room and tells us that we should eat. We all follow him into the dining room where the table is already filled out with steaming dishes. Several servants are close to the wall, ready for our beckon and call. I sit across Garett, Zander sits beside me, and Woof from across him.

I look around the table and see empty seats. Juliana and Adel, Garett's stylist, aren't here, unlike yesterday's dinner. Cecelia went out, too, so her seat is empty. "Where's Vergil?" I ask as I scoop lamb stew into a small bowl.

"Looking for sponsors, probably." Zander chews on bread.

This time around, it's Woof who asks us how training went, which surprises me. Woof never seemed to talk to us regarding the Games ever since arriving here. Garett and I take turns, telling him about our individual training and the Pudding Alliance. He seems to have lost interest halfway through, though, because his attention can't be torn away from his favorite shrimps.

"He's a far call from how he used to be, isn't he?" Zander quietly says.

"We all will be when we're old." I tell him before popping a strawberry in my mouth.

"If you guys live to be _that_ old." He laughs.

I feel a shiver down my spine. _Ah, shit._ "Not funny."

Garett continues to be a life-saver. "How old was he during your games?" He asks Zander. I know from school that Woof won the 15th Hunger Games, one of the earliest, but I haven't been able to keep up with counting his age. I guess I never did bother, because he seems oblivious to everyone around him at times.

"Sixty. A lot sharper than he is now." Zander takes a sip of wine. "I guess he finally let go when I won. Passed the baton, something like that."

"Like his successor?" I say.

"Kind of."

"What advice did he give you back then?" Garett passes me a glass of orange juice.

Zander shrugs. "Trust no one but yourself. No one really cares if you run away. All of you start on equal footing."

"It worked for you, huh?"

"It very well did. Ces won two years before I did. She helped out, too, but Woof did more." He lifted his glass in Woof's direction. "Thanks, buddy." Woof just looks at him and smiles.

"Were you even afraid?" I ask him. "The moment that gong sounded?"

"Woof offered me nice advice, so I guess not." Zander answers me. He asks Garett to pass him the bottle of wine. "He also told me that if I died in the arena, I would still be a hero." He smiles wistfully as he pours himself another drink. "_Children die heroes in the arena_, he said. I came in there, ready to either win or die, I guess."

Woof's advice to Zander then did sound a little comforting. Even if the tributes die in the arena, their own districts would still treat them as heroes. Back in 8, every fallen tribute is buried differently than the other people who die what we deem normal deaths. Mayor Trent once called it a 'hero's farewell,' when his friend's kid died fighting in the Games. The families of the deceased are given a special cloth to wrap the tribute in, before they are burned. Their ashes are given to the family, either to be scattered from the bridge or buried in the cemetery exclusive for tributes. I remember going to the cemetery once. The gravestones add up every year.

Even if I die in the arena, I would be buried like a hero. That's nice in itself, I guess.

We finish off the meal with a flaming caramel cake. Woof retires first, and Garett follows next. Zander still sits there, swirling the wine glass in his hand. He still has a wistful smile on his face. I have a feeling he is looking back at his Games.

"Zander?" I call out to him as I stand up and push my seat back. He doesn't seem to hear me. "Zander," I call him a little bit louder this time. He isn't responding still, so I touch him lightly on the shoulder. "Zander."

I take him by surprise, because his eyes suddenly widen, and he drops his glass on the floor, shattering into a million pieces. I jump back in shock, and when I look up, Zander is standing too, his chair on the floor. A servant rushes to our aid with a broom and dustpan, immediately sweeping the debris.

"Shit," Zander curses breathlessly, looking at me with wide, wide eyes. "Fucking shit, fucking hell, shit. Shit shit shit."

"Hey, calm down." I say nervously, not getting over my shock completely. "I was just going to tell you I'm going to bed."

He brings his palm to his face. "Fucking hell, sweetcheeks. Should've just left."

"I'm sorry," I say, although I'm not too sure why I should apologize. I tiptoe away awkwardly from the scene, only telling Zander to have a good night. He mutters something, but I am too far now to hear. Once I can't see him, I dash to my room.

I throw myself on the bed. All I did was touch him on the shoulder. Was he too deep in his thoughts to be surprised like that? Was he deep inside remembering his Games? Maybe I triggered an unpleasant memory inside his head. Ugh. I suddenly feel so terrible.

I sit up. How can I wash away this putrid feeling? My eye catches the gleam of the remote on my bedside table, so I take it gingerly in my hands. Watch TV? Not an entirely bad idea, I guess. I press the switch and the TV turns on. Of course, Caesar Flickerman shows up on my TV, wearing a huge grin on his face, his suit glittering orange and pink.

"Of course, we haven't been able to coax out information about the arena, folks," he says through his smile, "but the Gamemakers have repeatedly told us that we are going to expect nothing but the best for this year's Hunger Games!"

Suddenly, he's replaced by a bespectacled man with black hair and a beard the color of soot. His eyes are steel blue, and when he talked, it feels as if he's staring into my soul. "This year's Games will probably feel… ah, a little urgent than what we see from the previous years. We've created an arena that will make the tributes feel more and more in the Game than ever before." His name is on the bottom of the screen, printed in bold white letters: _FELIX BAXWOOL, Head Gamemaker._ By his looks, he is around the age of 50, probably?

Caesar is back onscreen and guffaws in delight. "This makes me so excited for more! Dear viewers, don't forget that the betting pools will open the night of the interviews. Now, here is a quick recap of this year's tributes to help with your bets!" The Capitol emblem shows up on screen, followed by the emblem of District 1. The emblem glows and disappears before the female tribute from 1 shows up.

Her name is Amethyst. Onscreen is her picture showing a 360-degree view of her head. The other two pictures after her headshot is a full-body picture of her in her training clothes and the outfit she wore during the parade. On the lower right of the screen is her betting odd of the moment: 6-1.

Her partner, Onyx, shows up next. His betting odd is the same as his partner's. I am actually paying attention to the TV well when the District 2 shows up. Lysistrata shows up, her betting odd a whopping 4-1. I bury my face in my hands. I have made an enemy out of the most proficient tributes out there. I lose my will to watch, and turn off the TV. I settle the remote back on my bedside table and bury my face in a pillow.

What am I going to do if Lysistreti is out to get me? Children die in the arena, Woof told Zander. I have that going for me in case she decides to snap my neck the moment the gong rings out.

My door opens all of a sudden. I turn my head to the side and see Garett coming inside, a small smile on his face. He has changed into pajamas and a loose shirt. I can see his token from home, the necklace from Iris. My face flushes for no good reason at all. "Can I come in?" He asks me.

"You're already inside, stupid." I reply. He laughs and sits at the edge of my bed.

"Were you sleeping?" He asks me.

"Nope. Watched TV for a little while."

"Ah. You saw the betting odds?"

"Up until Two's girl." I tell him how I lost hope after seeing her betting odds and how I am hung up on what to do since I am on her hit list.

"You think too much." Garett sighs. "She'll probably forget about you the instant the Games start."

"Fine. Did you see our odds?"

"Nope. I turned off the TV."

"Wimp," I tease him and bring back my face to my pillow.

"Wimp, huh?" He says. Then I feel something on my foot. It feels like a thousand bugs running up and down, or the sensation of grass blades underneath my feet. I feel laughter bubbling in my mouth. That's when I realize what Garett's doing: he's tickling my feet.

"No!" I bellow, kicking and scrambling. I continue to scream and laugh, a feat I never thought was possible for me to do. His tickling only grows stronger, and I feel myself running out of breath. Somehow, I manage to get on my knees and kick harder. My kick seems to have an effect because suddenly the fingers on my feet are gone, and I hear a groan coming from the floor. I start to panic. Through my panting, I call out for Garett, get on the floor, and kneel on his side.

He is lying on his back, clutching his stomach as if injured. His wince makes him look really pained. I panic more. What if I injure him before the Game starts? Will it affect him? Can he even go to the arena in this state? They would have to replace him! The Pudding Alliance would fall apart! _I _will fall apart without him in the arena!

"Garett?!" I shake him gently, but the urgency in my voice is hard to deny. "Garett!" Oh great, I took the first step into killing my district partner. This time, I shake him too hard. Garett winces even more.

"That hurts, Anya." He remains lying on the floor.

"Shit," I breathe out, "I thought you were dying." I lean on the bed, hitting his foot in the process.

"Ow." He winces again. "I just might be."

"Sorry for kicking you."

"Apology accepted. Sorry for tickling you."

"Yeah, whatever."

I stand up and go back to the bed. I fluff the pillow I buried my face in before relaxing. Garett stands up, too, and goes to the other side of the bed. He sits and notices something on the bedside table. "You have this, too?" He asks me.

I crane my neck to see what he's holding. "Have what?"

"This." He shows me. It's a remote, like the one with the TV, but this looks sleeker, with more buttons, too. He presses one button, and suddenly, my bare wall turns into a view with lights and moving things. The city, I realize. It's the Capitol night scene, with bustling cars and walking people and lights being turned on in buildings. I sit up, suddenly interested and in awe. I never knew that that wall was a window! The lights are gleaming a wide array of colors that I've seen in the factories. I've memorized a fair share of the colors: amaranth, lime green, brilliant blue…

And the view changes. The city suddenly turns into a lush expanse of greenery. Trees everywhere, birds and insects alike fluttering in the air. Even if I am far away from the window, everything is crystal clear. There are also sounds: the fleeting rustle of the wind on leaves, the faint sound of running water. It's too much to take in. I've never seen anything like this before, only in books. I stand up, unable to resist the pull of the scene. Slowly, I walk towards the window, reaching my hand out to touch a falling leaf…

It changes again, and its view hits me right in the stomach. The soot coming out of the factory chimneys, the red brick walls of the tenements, the large bridge that connects to the other side of town… it's District 8.

I let out a small gasp.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Garett says. He goes to my side and offers me the remote. "Last night, I felt incredibly… lonely. I saw this and somehow, I felt better. Even if it's just for a small while." He takes my hand and presses the remote into it.

"It's home." I say, awestruck still. I miss being back in my district, with the silent purrs of the factories that go on even during the wee hours of dawn. I miss the room I share with my younger brothers, the smell of the broth that Mom likes to cook, even the sound Dad's wheelchair makes when it scrapes the floorboards. I miss Iris raising her eyebrows every time Lacey made a snide comment about me. Cecelia's kids I miss too, Argyle who looks nothing like his mother except for his eyes; Little Lumia with her crooked teeth, and Fiero young enough to be left by his mother. And Nidle—sweet, stupid Nidle whom I may never see again.

I turn to Garett, hopeful. "Do you think they have our families here? You know, when I press this they might actually appear?"

Garett shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says, his voice a gentle whisper. "I went through every single view last night. Dad didn't appear. So did Nidle and Iris."

My hope drops. Of course the Capitol wouldn't include something like that. They wouldn't want their tributes sad because of something like family when they had a Game to be worried about. I intertwine my fingers with his, thankful how his warmth is so close to me.

"You know, in a twisted kind of way," I begin, "I'm pretty thankful you're here."

"Really?" It's a wonder how his hand fits in perfectly with mine. "Why's that?"

"I don't know," I confess. "Maybe because I look at you and I see home?"

He rests his chin on my head. The weight doesn't bother me at all. "I do, too." He tells me. "My piece of home."

We are close enough for me to hear his heartbeat. His is calm, soothing. Mine is probably beating like crazy, like the sound of rain hitting a drum. I can breathe in his scent: Capitol shampoo that smells like lemons, a bit of his body husk probably, a faint scent of Iris from his token. Is he smelling me too? Is he paying attention to what I smell like, like I am with him? Have I ever done this to Nidle? Will I even get to do this with him? I feel chances slipping quickly through my fingers. My hold on Garett's hand tightens. This is just like that day filled with lightning, where he brought me comfort…

I remember Iris, her vibrant smile mostly. The shame makes me press a button on the remote, transporting us to another world.

A world I didn't like very much.

It's in District 8 again, but now the sky is darker, and rain is falling. The river is sloshing around violently, and in the sky dances flashes of golden white. The sound is a booming crack: thunder and lightning.

I do not have time to yell out. I bury my face on Garett's chest, the remote slipping from my hand and onto the floor. I clutch his shirt, afraid of the sound and the flashes. They're so close, I can feel it: the lightning's going to strike me, and I will die before the Game even starts. Moisture is starting to form in my eyes, threatening to fall as the cracks resonate even louder.

Amidst the lightning, I can hear Garett whisper closely in my ear. "It's not real, Anya."

"It is, it is, it is." I whimper. "Make it stop, please,"

"The lightning isn't real. District Eight's not in the middle of a thunderstorm. We're in the Capitol."

"Make it stop, Garett, please. Please."

And it does stop. The lightning stops for me, like that day a year ago.

Exactly like that year ago.

Garett silences me again with a kiss. I couldn't hear the lightning; I hear my heart beating in my ears instead. His hand slips to my back, the other one away from my hand to the back of my head. I don't resist him, he doesn't resist me. It feels as if we fit in with each other perfectly. The space between us grows less and less, until I can breathe him in more than before. I forget Nidle, I forget Iris, I forget everything—now is all that there is, and Garett is here now. We are here now.

"Anya," he says when we break apart for a second.

"Mhmm," I answer.

We sink to the floor. I feel weaker and weaker by the moment, but we don't stop. Even when we reach the floor our lips are still on each other. Our breathing gets heavier, the kissing gets more urgent. My back presses to the mattress, Garett's hand is on the floor while the other one is on my cheek, and he is on his knees. The lightning has long gone from my ears.

"Are you alright?" He asks when we stop for air.

"Mhmm," I pant. I am having a hard time catching my breath.

He brushes a strand of hair away from my face. "I made the lightning stop." He laughs.

"You did."

He takes a long look at the door, and then back at me. His eyes are so wonderful, I seem to notice for the first time in a year. "I don't think I can sleep tonight." He smiles sheepishly. The smile should've reminded me of the boy who is waiting for me back in 8, but I seem to have forgotten. I should be crying, but no.

I wrap my arms around the neck of the boy in front of me. The courage I have is foreign, something new to me. It's amazing, and frightening at the same time. "I don't think I can, too," and I take his lips again in mine.


	10. Off the Edge

**Finally, we have a new chapter. Special thanks to those who have been visiting this fic! Your views are very important. Please do not forget to leave a review if you would like! :)**

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><p>The scenery of District 8 plagued by lightning has long since been changed to a scene where the sun is up and rising. I don't know for how long we stay like that, my head resting on his shoulder, my hand over his chest, his lips gently touching my forehead.<p>

Who am I kidding? Of course I know for how long we've been like this: since last night.

I yawn, and my drowsiness slowly melts away. I move gently, careful not to wake up the boy beside me, but not without stealing a short look at him. Garett sleeping embodies peace, gentleness, youth. I accidentally step on the remote as soon as my feet hit the ground— the scenery of the sunrise changes into real time, I think. The window is now showing the vast landscape of the Capitol, with rising skyscrapers and a hazy skyline the color of beige and a little khaki. The visible streets are empty, the nightlights of some rooms in the buildings are still open. I remember Iris telling me once that the Capitol people liked waking up late, due to the lavish parties the night before. I turn away from the window before I could recall the sound of Iris' voice and hurry into the bathroom, not without almost tripping over the shirt I wore last night.

The scent of menthol wafts through the whole bathroom when I am done with the shower. I am zipping up my pants as I go into the bedroom when I hear the soft shuffling of feet and a red uniform catches my eye.

My head shoots up. We make eye to eye contact, the servant and I. On her hands is a wicker basket where our clothes from last night have been gathered, like the shirt I almost tripped on moments earlier.

I think I have a horrified expression on my face because the servant bows her head in an instant and bends down to take Garett's shirt in one swift motion. In a matter of seconds she is close to the door when my senses come alive. My heart starts beating loudly in my ears, and it isn't until I have her wrist in my hand that I feel my cheeks burning. She's going to report this to Zander! Or worse, to Ces!

"Uh," my voice is strained, probably because of my horrendous singing in the shower, "uh…"

Her eyes are wide. I lessen my grip on her in case she thinks I'm going to hurt her. But she doesn't say anything. She doesn't even shake her head. All I get from her is that she thinks I'm going to hurt her and that she desperately needs to get out of the room.

I take a glance back at Garett and then at her. "Uh, the clothes." I get out. "Can you… uh… please…" My hands fall to my sides. "Please don't tell Cecelia."

I think she understands, because she nods. She tries to smile, too, but it comes out as a small wince, and she opens the door and heads out. I bet she didn't hear my thank you.

Her half-hearted response to my plea leaves me half-terrified, half-guilty. She may have said yes to me, but what if she still tells Cecelia? I don't want to know what Cecelia's reaction would be if she found out, but I imagine I wouldn't like it one bit. I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly too afraid to head out of the room. Garett is still asleep, looking as peaceful as he possibly could. I resist the urge to kiss him, to even brush away the lock of his blond hair on his face. There's the notion that I might be in too deep if I do it, or that he might break if I touch him. Either way, guilt begins gnawing on my insides. Thinking of Garett breaking… would all that I have done break the boy back at home?

I know it's too late to think of him, how I easily discarded him like that, like we had nothing at all, like we didn't cling to each other before I was sent to the train. I'm scared that if I say his name out loud he might know what I have done, what Garett and I have done. I don't want to think of him, but he manages to find the cracks and seep through. I'm ashamed of how I can say Garett's name while he planted kisses on my neck and not think of him at all in the moments that followed.

I sigh. I picked the wrong time to deal with these kinds of things. I'm in the Capitol to play a part in the Hunger Games. I swallow and stand up, dreading the moment as I walk out the door that I might see Cecelia arms folded, a stern look on her face.

I don't see Cecelia, but I see Zander: arms folded, a stern look on his face, looking outside the huge window in the living room. It looks like he had an argument with someone—

Oh, no. No, no, no. The girl must have told. The girl told! _The girl told!_

I inhale sharply. What am I going to do? Should I just apologize firsthand? Grovel at his feet? "Please don't tell Cecelia!" I could cry and plead. I could tell him a ton of things, like my last will. "Don't tell my boyfriend and best friend that I had sex with _her_ boyfriend!"

"Sweetcheeks?" Someone touches my shoulder. My heart jumps out of my chest. I almost scream but it catches in my throat. Vergil's eyes meet mine. Or is it even Vergil? The man in front of me has a shaven head, his skin a bronze color not foreign in our district. He's dressed in a simple black shirt with a tattered neckline, khaki pants, and slippers. My mouth is open in disbelief. He looks from one side to another. "Did you see a ghost?"

"A remnant of a man, probably," I reply.

"It's me, sweetcheeks." He smirks.

I shake my head. "I actually have no idea who you are."

Of course it's Vergil. He tells me that his grandmother visited him in a dream and lamented about his current skin color, saying that their natural skin color was more beautiful than anything else he had tried. "She told me that the others would love this." He tells me as we make our way to the couches. "I just have to find a nice wig that will compliment me. Ah, good morning, Zander. Didn't see you there."

Zander raises his eyebrows. "Who are you and what have you done with Vergil Wellwood?" I stifle a laugh.

They keep on throwing their banter at each other even while we head to the table to have breakfast. In between bites of his food, Zander tells one of the servants to bring coffee and pancakes to Woof's room. I look around the room for the girl who promised me her silence, but she's not anywhere to be seen. Garett comes in fifteen minutes later, hair slick from a shower, the clothes sticking to his body and hugging his frame.

I feel my cheeks turning red. I take a long sip of my orange juice.

"Where's Cecelia?" He asks as he takes his seat beside mine.

And like magic, Cecelia shows up, emerging from the hallway to our rooms. "Good morning," she says with a smile on her face. Since when did she get back? When she gets to looking at me, her smile diminishes. She answers my not-asked question. "I got back before four."

Through chewing and sipping, we get to talking about additional skills, plans, and risks. It goes without saying that Cecelia and Zander are still on the fence about our little Pudding Alliance, but unlike yesterday, Zander's showing a little more support. "The nice thing about alliances is that sometimes, the work load gets divided. Kind of like your teams in the factories." He says as he waves around his mug of coffee. "The worst thing is when you've allied yourself with idiots."

"Did you have an alliance during your games?" Garett asks him.

"You ask as if you've never watched my games before, Garett." Zander replies.

"I hate digging through my memory." My partner replies smoothly.

"Zander didn't have an alliance," Cecelia answers for him, "I had one for about three days until I woke up to see one of our members with her throat slit. Long story short, we don't have nice experiences with alliances."

Garett looks at me. "I won't have to worry about you wrapping your hands around my neck, will I?"

I scoff. "If I live long enough to see you again."

"Well, aren't my tributes a bit gloomy this morning?" Vergil speaks up. "To lighten your spirits a bit, I have some good news. Some important people in this society have already expressed their thoughts of sponsoring you."

Zander raises his eyebrows at Cecelia. "Ain't that good news, indeed?"

Vergil goes on about telling us about gathering up potential sponsors. Do well in training, be likable or have a wonderful interview with Caesar Flickerman, perform well at the Games. Coming out of his mouth it all sounds and seems so easy, but I can't even hang on tight to the ropes course.

I decide to try that station again, to build up arm strength. Surely having that station in the training room must mean that it will show up in the games later on. I run through the list of station yesterday in my mind, checking what I've already done and what I should be focusing on today. If the tributes from districts 1, 2, and 4 aren't hogging the stations with weapons, then maybe I could learn how to use a spear or a sword—

"We should be heading downstairs." Garett says, and his chair scrapes the floor.

"Remember, do good in training today," Vergil reminds him. He turns to me. "Do your best sweetcheeks. We have to give the sponsors a reason to vouch for you."

Garett and I head toward the elevator in silence. As soon as the elevator doors close, he holds my hand and exhales, like he has been holding his breath ever since walking out of the dining hall. "What do you plan on doing today?" He asks me in a gentle tone.

"The Gauntlet," I reply, "pick up a few weapons, probably. You?"

"Ropes course," he grins.

I pull my hand away before the elevator doors open. "Very funny." I begin to move my foot forward, but he stops me by my wrist.

"I'll check on you every once in a while, okay?"

"Okay," I answer, and we step out together, hands at our sides.

o-O-o

Sweat trickles down my nape, leaving me very uncomfortable and a little bit tense. The archery station has proved to be a worthy test, one that I would rather not take up. But what if the only weapons in the arena are bows and arrows? I should at least leave no station untouched.

I pull the arrow and let it loose. It misses the target by a few good inches.

The trainer sighs. "You'll get there,"

"You think?" I sigh, too, as I put down the bow. "I should probably move."

I don't give him time to answer. I start walking towards another station, whatever it may be. So far, I've been alright with the Gauntlet, horrible with archery, mediocre at best with medicinal plants, and so-so with spears. I paid attention to what the rest of the Pudding Alliance was doing, too. Aiden was in the fire-making station, Marcy was using the slingshots, and Garett was busy with swords. I could contribute to the alliance my mediocrity.

I reach the rock-climbing station. The wall stands at 26 feet, the trainer told me. First, we start with ropes. After a couple of rounds, the ropes are to be removed to test our footing and arm strength.

I gulp as the trainer puts me in what she calls the harness. This is just like the ropes course all over again: higher than it, and even more dangerous. I might die.

It'll be quick. I won't have to endure the Games anymore.

"In case you fall, the harness will help. And once we remove the harness, don't worry still. We matted the floor to be safe." The trainer says with a reassuring smile on her face. She looks bored, though.

"Thanks." I swallow hard and climb.

The first climb is easier than doing the ropes course. The rocks are rough, sure, but with the harness, climbing feels safe. I try to find my footing several times, but when I reach the top, I breathe a sigh of relief. At least it looks like I am doing something right. The climb without the harness though… I would rather not talk about it.

I move on to the stations with the weapons they call the sickles. They use these funny curved blades in District 11 for the harvests. I don't see the tributes from District 11 visit this station though; they probably don't need training for this anymore since they use these every day of their lives. School taught me that no one was young enough not to work, especially in the outlying districts.

The weapon feels light in my hand. When I swing it, there's a sharp ringing in my ears. It's swift: I bet the blade could cut a box in half with just one slash. I try it out on one of the mannequins: it takes more than one swift cut to dismember the mannequin's right arm. It falls to the ground after what seems like ten slashes. The trainer was kind enough to teach me how to attack and dodge potential enemies with a wooden replica of the weapon. "Don't want Capitol blood spilling now, would we?" He chuckles. I chuckle back. _No, you just need ours._

Lunch comes by quickly. The four of us find a table as soon as we have our food. I made sure to include the buttered mashed potatoes again, but this time with a wide array of meats. The lamb chops with peanut sauce are back on the menu, so I take a plate of that too.

"I saw the boy from One looking at you while you were at the sword station." Marcy tells Garett. On her plate is a serving of chicken with vegetables with what they call rice.

Aiden is chewing loudly. "Looks like he found someone to crush on."

Marcy turns red. "He wouldn't," she starts to say, but tears away her gaze from Garett and proceeds to eat instead.

Garett laughs at Aiden's little remark. "I'm terribly sorry, but I have someone back at home."

I eye the bread knife on the table, and think if I should just stab myself. He has someone back at home, as do I. And yet where were we last night? In my room, fucking.

I gulp down my orange juice and stand up hurriedly. Stupid me, of course Garett would notice. "Anything wrong?" He asks, a little too concerned.

"I want more juice." I simply say, and head back to the juice fountains.

I know what we have done will bite me back: I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Why did I do that? Is it because unknowingly, I have pent-up desire towards my best friend's boyfriend? Because I have never forgotten about that stormy night, how his lips fit perfectly with mine? How could he make me forget the boy back at home easily, and yet I cannot do the same to him, for his girl back at home? I should be worrying about my survival, for goodness' sake!

The rest of the afternoon went by through an average pace. I managed to go through the Gauntlet again, and did a run-through with all the weapons stations. I am weaving a basket from grass when Atala announces that the day is over.

"Tomorrow will be your private sessions with the Gamemakers." She said before sending us off to our floors. "We will begin after lunch, with each of you having fifteen minutes each." From the corner of my eye, I see Lysistreti baring her teeth in a frightening smile. I bet she'll score a twelve.

"I bet she'll score a twelve, at best." Aiden says as soon as the elevator doors close.

"Who?" We all ask him.

"The girl from Two. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement when Atala announced the schedule for the private sessions." He turns to Marcy. "What are you going to do?"

"Probably fire a few rounds with the slingshot." She shrugs. She turns to Garett and asks the same question.

"I'll amaze them with my rope climbing skills." He nudges me playfully, but I am exhausted with overthinking that I just give him a half-hearted smile.

"I'll show off my skill with the maces, aim to throw one in their direction." Aiden laughs. The elevator doors open to Marcy's floor.

"See you tomorrow," we say in unison, and the doors close.

"How 'bout you, Anya? What do you have in store for us?" The boy from District 12 asks. His playful smile still reminds me of the boy back in District 8, the one who kissed me before I went here, the kiss which tasted like tears.

I roll my eyes. "Fall flat on my back and score a one." The bell dings, and the doors open. I alight immediately, but not quickly enough to not hear what Aiden said, "Sounds like a solid plan!"

I'm expecting Garett to stop me before I get to the living room, but he doesn't. I walk straight-on, passing by Vergil who now has a purple wig on, and Juliana and Adel who were chattering excitedly on the counters. I close the door of my room behind me, and go straight to the shower. When I am finished, I get dressed. It's not too long before I realize that the clothes we had both worn last night have been washed, perfectly folded, and put on the bed for me to see. Before my guilt takes over to throw away the clothes, the door opens. I expect it to be Garett, but it's not him.

Zander seems to have a knack for entering my room when I am about to have an emotional outburst. My guilt and frustration hang suspended in the air. I don't even react quickly to hide the clothes—Garett's clothes—from my mentor's eyes.

Being a person with dramatic flair, he raises his eyebrows. "Oh," he says, his voice sounding like it could break a thousand flutes of high-class Capitol champagne.

I go to him, cling on to his cotton shirt. "Please," I beg, "don't tell Ces."

"Tell Ces what?" He answers, patronizing my sin.

"Please…" I can feel hot tears forming in my eyes. "Just… don't."

Instead of walking away, my mentor puts a hand on my shoulder. His touch is soft and warm, far from the coldness of his gaze when he looks out his window back in the Victor's Village. "I'm here to help you live, sweetcheeks. I won't put you in any trouble."

"But the servant girl… the one with curly hair… she might tell."

"She won't." He assures me. "Rather, she can't."

I look up at him. "She can't?"

"She doesn't have a tongue, sweetcheeks. All of the servants here are the same."

"Oh." To think I almost got on my knees to beg for her silence.

He tells me to wipe my tears and wash my face so that the others won't notice my red eyes. And then, after an hour, he calls me to eat.

Dinner is excruciating. I feel like I am eating rocks instead of soft bread. Garett tries to create small talk between us, but I am too tired to muster even the slightest reply. Vergil picks up on my mood, ever the persistent ass.

"Everything alright, sweetcheeks?" He asks me.

"Just tired." Comes the automatic response out of my mouth.

"Well you should rest up," Juliana says as she loads a slice of cake on her plate. "You need to show them how fabulous you are tomorrow!"

I try to smile in reply. Thankfully, all of them drop trying to console me. I go to my room as soon as we are done talking about the private sessions for tomorrow: Zarven advised me to do the Gauntlet, possibly request for additional obstacles while running to show them my great points. "Do your best tomorrow. I'll be meeting with some people who have called in to be your sponsors."

My ears perk up at the word 'sponsors.' "But I haven't even done anything for them to love me." _Not yet._

He smiles softly. One of the rare instances that he does. "That's why I'm here, sweetcheeks." He puts a white stick between his lips, and lights it up with a match. He leaves behind a faint smell of smoke once he goes through the door.

I shuffle through the scenes on the window while lying on the bed. The scenery after the stormy night in District 8 is a scene of the sea, probably taken from District 4. There are children, swimming happily, splashing each other with water. Their parents, from the looks of it, are on what they call boats, laughing. After a few more of their inaudible laughter, I change the scenery. No one's that happy living in the districts.

The door opens again, and in comes the source of my sour mood. Garett is once again in my room, bashful and quiet. Far from the Garett I always watch. "Ces has left for a sponsor's meeting." He tells me and no one at the same time.

He sits on the bed, a welcome stranger. "Anya?" He calls me as if I am asleep.

"Yes?" I answer, almost too immediately.

"I wanted to tell you something."

"By all means, go ahead." Go ahead and clear up this misunderstanding.

It takes a while before I hear his voice again. Rather than bashful, he sounds braver now. More sure of himself. "I'm not sorry about what happened last night."

I guess neither am I towards him, but towards the boy back at home? How can I ever face him again, if ever I get to come back home? But his assurance of us not being something he feels sorry for…

"I know that Iris and I…" he clears his throat, "it confused me, when I felt the urge to kiss you, but when you kissed me back, I just…"

"Lost all your senses?" I say. That's what it felt like for me.

"Yeah." He rubs the back of his hand. "What we did last night was probably a mistake, but not to me. And I'm just hoping you feel the same."

I'm a goner.

Instead of telling him, I show him. I sit up, and without any hesitation, kiss him again. He tastes like mint, the same way he smells. Maybe I have gone mad. We both have someone waiting back at home, but they're back home. We're here. We're the only ones here. The girl and boy back in District 8 wouldn't understand the weight of this all, being reaped together, thrown in a city full of luxuries we could never afford, listening to adults speak of ways we could survive. I'm sinning against myself, but what am I to do? The boy that I am kissing is my own piece of home in this moment, and I am not letting go of him.

The kiss deepens. My hands trail from his face down to his chest. We stop for air, only for Garett to leave kisses on my neck. I'm gasping, pulling him closer to me as if we aren't close enough. I call his name, softly at first, and then urgently, when I feel his hand enter the back of my shirt. I don't know if my skin is cold, or if his hands are warm. They don't mean a thing, after all, since I feel like I am on fire.

Garett moans my name, and I feel like someone letting go of the ledge. His lips find mine again, my hands find his. We are whispering each other's names, clinging on to the other's body like we are in urgent need of each other. I guess we are.

I don't recall the moment where we hungrily begin to take off each other's clothes, but I do remember him kissing me on the forehead before the world goes dim, and then dark.

o-O-o

"_District One, Onyx Haliber._" The monstrous boy from District 1 stands. He nods at his district partner before walking towards the gymnasium, where the Gamemakers are waiting to judge us.

We have been placed in a room where the only furniture would be the benches we are sitting on. One of the trainers—by the sound of the voice, it would be Finn—are to call us one by one to enter the gym to start our private sessions. The television set shows nothing but the dancing emblem of Panem. The room is so silent that it makes me want to scream.

I feel Garett's hand briefly touch mine. "Are you ready?"

"I'll be fine." I tell him.

Seventeen minutes pass before Finn speaks through the intercom again. "_District One, Amethyst Oslo._"

And the time passes by like this. The boy from 3 looks thrilled to be called, while the girl from 5 is on the verge of tears when Finn calls her name. I wonder what she is going to do to impress the Gamemakers. Would they pity her, and give her a score of more than two?

I find the time to pick on my nail polish again when Finn calls another tribute. "_District Six: Marcy Bolt._"

Marcy looks at us before walking outside. "Here I go," she says. Garett and I both smile at her for good luck. My back is aching from having to sit straight.

"I feel like throwing up." Garett chuckles when the girl from District 7 is called.

"You'll do fine." I encourage him. "You know how to handle weapons well."

"I bet I'll score nothing higher than a five."

"And you'll be carrying me as dead weight. I don't think I'll be scoring anything more than a one."

He looks at me as if I'm joking. I laugh, and pat him on the back.

And the District 7 girl's minutes are over. "_District Eight, Garett Stear._"

He gives my hand another brush of his fingers before standing up. "I'll see you upstairs," he tells me. I nod at him and give him a thumbs-up sign.

When he walks out of the room, it feels as though the temperature drops. I can feel the world go silent, and it is just me in the room, waiting for my impending doom. Have I been so attached to Garett now that when he is not beside me I cannot force myself to function properly? I hope he does well in his session… but not too great to garner a score of more than ten. If he scores that, all of the tributes will come after him.

I try to pull myself away from thinking about his session, and focus more on mine. What did Zarven advise? Oh, the Gauntlet. Maybe I should try to pick up the sickle, too, and a spear, just in case.

I am imaging myself sparring with a trainer using a spear when Finn's voice comes, clear and mighty. "_District Eight, Anya Sowe._" I can feel sweat forming in my palms. As I stand, I wipe them on my shirt. I turn around to see Aiden giving me the thumbs-up sign. I manage to show him a smile, though I bet it's dreadful.

I have to push away the terrible feeling in my stomach. If not for me, then for my family back home.

As I enter the gymnasium, it is not only the echoes of my footsteps that I hear: there's chattering, the clattering of silverware against plates, the soft clinking of glasses for toasts. I look up to see some of the Gamemakers having a little feast on their platform. Some are seated on the couches, looking at me as I walk. I swallow hard, anticipating to trip.

I don't. I reach the middle of the gym where a mark has been set. As soon as I reach the mark, I look up again. A few more are now looking at me. There's the man who was licking his lips at me the first day, a glass of wine in his hand: I shudder when his dark eyes meet mine.

"Introduce yourself." A woman says.

I do as I am bid. "Anya Sowe, District Eight."

"You may begin, Miss Sowe."

I don't want to waste a minute. I immediately walk over to the Gauntlet. I set the speed of the swinging clubs higher than the average. Will this really highlight my speed? But I don't have time to think because I am on the course itself, too busy avoiding the clubs to even think.

When I am done, I move on to the sickles, where it takes three to four slashes per body part to dismember the mannequin. The end product isn't as clean as how the tribute from District 10 did his from yesterday's training, but this would do.

Throwing knives and spears is as daunting as my first sessions with it. I do hit the boards, but never make it to hit the target. I try my best not to let the frustration show. I won't give the Gamemakers something to laugh about while waiting for the next tribute to show up.

But oh I already have, haven't I? What kind of score am I getting for showing off my mediocrity? I suppose even a zero wouldn't be enough.

I am to throw my seventh knife when a voice rings out. "That would suffice. You may go, Miss Sowe."

I look up towards them and bow slightly. I wish I could've turned away quick enough to not see the dark-eyed Gamemaker raise his newly-refilled glass in my direction. My palms are still sweating. I wipe them down my shirt again.


End file.
